


Last Night's Clothes and Tomorrow's Dreams

by IckeyAndMian (bananacabana)



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bipolar Disorder, Canonical Character Death, Dancer Ian Gallagher, Falling In Love, Friends With Benefits, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mechanic Mickey Milkovich, Mental Health Issues, Personal Growth, Secret Relationship, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:00:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 64,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25999402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananacabana/pseuds/IckeyAndMian
Summary: Mickey never thought he'd have a future beyond four cell walls, and now that he finds he does, he has no idea what to do with it.Life is okay. And for Mickey that's pretty much as good as he could have ever expected it to be, but when he hooks up with the ardent Ian Gallagher, a local dance instructor who dreams of turning his passion into a career, Mickey finds that there are things in this world he never knew he was missing out on.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 88
Kudos: 151





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Was this entire fic devised as an excuse to write Ian and Mickey waltzing together? Maybe.
> 
> A huge huge huge thank you to Olivia, for helping me craft this idea from the very beginning and supporting me every step of the way so far.

Mickey closes the refrigerator empty handed for the third time in an hour. He isn't hungry, he'd just had breakfast not two hours ago, but somehow today he finds himself coming back without even thinking about what he's doing. A blissful waft of cool air chills his skin as the door shuts, a welcome feeling against the day's oppressive heat. The AC's fucked again and the likelihood of their landlord giving a shit is about the same as a group of trained monkeys turning up to fix it.

Aside from the temporary relief from what feels like the hottest day of the year so far, Mickey knows that it's sheer boredom which has him aimlessly wandering around the apartment just for something to do with his hands. He's restless, still getting used to this whole being-a-functioning-member-of-society bullshit he'd decided upon after his latest stint in prison the year before, vowing to himself it'd be the last.

Doing nothing is unnatural to a Milkovich, to Mickey especially. Sure, they had the reputation around the block he grew up on as lazy sons of bitches who wouldn't lift a finger for their community, but that didn't mean they were idle. He can probably count on one hand the amount of times he had the peace and quiet of the house to himself growing up, his family home constantly flooded with the traffic of extended family members, boys Mandy brought home, whores Iggy brought home and various other associates his family dealt with. The place was always abuzz with scams and less than legal activity, but Mickey simply grew accustomed to the chaos. He never needed the quiet because he was a part of it too, filing off serial numbers at the table with his dad and his old prison pals, planning drug runs with his brothers, even rallying with some of the girls at the local whorehouse in an attempt to place a few extra under-the-table bucks in his hand.

Mickey lived for it. At least, he did back then.

He's vaguely aware of his one day off this week dragging away with nothing to show for it as every monotonous tick of the clock mounted on the wall by the kitchen table persists on, still an hour behind from where Mandy hadn't gotten around to changing it after daylight savings time and they'd lost an hour to the spring. He'd gotten used to mentally correcting the time in his mind by now and he knows it will most likely stay that way until Fall comes around again, correcting itself eventually no matter how many times Mandy says she'll fix it. Mickey knows he could do it himself, it’d occupy all of 5 minutes of his day and alleviate the boredom for as much but it’s the principle of it. Mandy said she’d do it, so he’s gonna let her fucking do it. 

It's barely noon (despite the kitchen clock's insistence that it's still 11:00) and Mickey drops himself back onto the sofa, fingers mechanically pulling out his phone, opening and closing apps mindlessly in the hopes that something stimulating will eventually make itself apparent before him. He's not exactly big on Social Media, putting his life online for the world to see just seems nothing short of idiotic to him. At best you look like a needy motherfucker desperate for attention, at worst it creates a perfect map of your life for the Feds to snoop around in whenever they fucking feel like, and though Mickey doesn't have anything particularly that needs hiding anymore, he'd still rather they didn't have the option.

It's the same old shit anyway, shit he has never and will never care about but finds himself scrolling through anyway, refusing to engage but still persistently watching it all happen from a distance.

He inevitably ends up on Grindr, thumb swiping through profiles but his mind barely registers the bodies on the screen. Nothing catches his interest; he just can't be fucked with it all right now. His skin is too hot, the clammy layer of sweat sticking to him, suffocating and making it all too easy for his body to be lazy while his mind scrambles for something to challenge it. He wonders if he'll ever get used to the idea of staying still. Learn to relax and enjoy his one goddamn day off this week instead of allowing the gnawing need for action to paralyse him completely.

He sighs purposefully, pulling himself up into a sitting position on the sofa and glances at the clock again - 11:30 (12:30) - and groans, rubbing his palms against his eyes.

 _Just watch TV_ his brain supplies _just veg the fuck out and do nothing_ but he knows he won't. It's too hot anyway, even if he could allow himself a couple hours to just switch off.

With a frustrated shake of his head, Mickey grabs his phone again and opens YouTube. There are plenty of tutorials for fixing up busted AC units and Mickey scrolls through a couple before finding a few that he thinks will be useful. He absorbs all he can, his brain turning with the impromptu crash course on AC maintenance and repairs while hunched over his phone, filing away what he's gonna need and deciding if he needs to stop by Home Depot later. It seems manageable, something he can figure out, something he can _do_.

He stands, stretches slightly, twisting his back from side to side and hearing the satisfying click of his joints adjusting. His muscles always seem tight, stubbornly reminding him of the tension that refuses to ease, despite knowing he doesn't need to watch his back so much anymore. He goes to find the toolbox.

It's Mandy's toolbox actually, filled with a mismatched selection of stuff left by the previous tenant as well as a few things she'd at some point borrowed from a handful of exes and never returned. Mickey will hand it to his sister – which is something he doesn’t do often – she has worked hard to make this dump a somewhat reasonable living space. Pictures on the wall and shit like that. Not like the scrapheap that was their house growing up and Mickey feels almost guilty for invading the space she’s built. Still, he pays his half of the rent and cleans up after himself, fair is fair so she can't exactly bitch about it.

Mickey rummages through the assortment of what he has to work with and takes out a couple screwdrivers, eyeballing to determine the right size before he gets to work unscrewing the casing.

There's something satisfying in fixing things that Mickey has always appreciated. Whether its cars, appliances, furniture, whatever. It's the methodology of taking something apart piece by piece and laying each component bare before you to determine the weak link, the rusted cog in the clockwork of parts that jeopardises the functionality of the whole. It's the gratification of finding the solution, in solving the puzzle and then building anew from what's left. It's taking control. Owning what you can and taking charge to correct what's broken.

Even if it's just a busted AC unit on a hot summer's day.

* * *

It's some hours later when Mickey hears the door. He's hanging out the window smoking a cigarette, a courtesy he'd adopted after moving in with his sister and she'd given him shit for making her apartment stink of stale smoke. He doesn't have to look up to know it's Mandy.

"You rob a fucking hardware store or something?" Mandy remarks, eyes darting at the discarded tools scattered on the table before she pauses mid step, the squeak of her shoes halting against the faded wood floor. Mickey stubs out the remains of the filter against the outer brick and looks back, sees her eyes close blissfully as she lets out a breath of relief. "You fixed the AC." It's a statement more than anything, an acknowledgement of the favour Mickey had done for the both of them. It's a simultaneous _thank you_ and an _I'm not fucking thanking you_ _so shut up_. It's about as much as Mickey expects. His relationship with his sister isn't exactly overflowing with familial sibling fondness. They tolerate one another more so than any of their other siblings and, being the closest in age, they'd shared a lot of their earliest memories together, not particularly fond memories of course, but memories all the same. Now though, they mostly just exist together, barely giving a shit about the other as long as they're not dead or in jail.

In truth, Mickey does owe a lot to Mandy, though he'll never admit it. It was her who suggested he move in with her after he'd been released from prison. Her old roommate had just moved out and the rent was too steep for her to live alone. They never actually discussed the fact that Mickey had no other options. Their dad had died while Mickey was inside, finally pissed off the wrong person and ended up with a bullet in his neck. Mickey didn't go to the funeral, despite being offered a day's leave on compassionate grounds and there wasn't a single moment where he'd felt even an ounce of regret for his decision. And while the abrupt loss of his father had been the furthest cause for sorrow, it _had_ meant that the house he'd grown up in was seized by his fuckhead uncle, sold off for fucking peanuts and reduced to rubble before Mickey set foot outside as a free man again.

"You're back late," Mickey notes absently with a glance at the clock (just fucking fix it).

"Stopped by the gym after work," Mandy shrugs as she steps into the kitchen and splashes some water on her face. It's enough to make Mickey pause. He doesn't exactly keep track of his sister's schedule but he's fairly sure this is a first. Her hair is tied into a tight ponytail on top of her head, damp with sweat, a water bottle sits half empty on the countertop where she'd just placed it and she's wearing the gym clothes she'd bought last year when she'd decided she was going to take up running, only to last a week.

"Since when do you go to the fucking gym?"

"Since when is it any of your business?" she shoots back and Mickey shrugs because it's not and he doesn't actually give a shit. Still, he knows that particular brand of evasive defensiveness, the kind she only ever uses when she's being girly over some dumb shit and Mickey rolls his eyes as understanding dawns.

Mandy tends to become whoever she needs to be when there’s a guy involved.

"If the next dude you're gonna let screw you over is a fucking gym monkey then I'm staying out of it, just so you know." She turns to him, scowling at Mickey's nonchalance as he packs away the rest of the tools neatly, feeling the satisfaction of a job completed in the form of cool air on his back as he tries to focus on anything but his sister's sex life. Extensive as it may be.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Mandy crosses her arms, daring Mickey to be an asshole as though that wasn't his plan from the start.

"Means I aint getting my ass kicked by a fucking body builder if he treats you like shit." It wouldn't be the first time Mickey's had to stand up for her; if Mickey knows anything it's how to be intimidating. And while he's aware of the fact that Mandy is more than capable of fighting her own battles, it's the only way he knows how to show that he cares really, at least a little, in his own fucked up South Side way. Where he comes from, violence is always the answer.

"He’s not a fucking body builder," Mandy spits back bitterly before seemingly realising she’d just confirmed Mickey’s assumption that this is about some dude and that Mickey isn’t quite finished torturing her yet. He takes a seat at the kitchen counter, watches as she rolls her eyes and pulls out her phone.

“So is he the fucking receptionist or what? Janitor? I could beat the shit out of a janitor, no problem,” Mickey jokes.

“I’d hedge your bets, Ian would kick your ass,” she says with a scowl, rising to his bait “He teaches a dance class at the fitness centre on Roosevelt.”

"I'm sorry, what?" Mickey says with a smirk, cruelty comes hand in hand with boredom for him. "What did you say he does?"

"Fuck you, Mick."

“You think some pussy-ass dancer boy can kick my ass?”

Mandy doesn’t respond and Mickey debates pushing it, wringing as many easy jokes dry for all their worth but in reality, he can't be bothered. He doesn't give a shit who Mandy bangs, as long as whoever it is stays out of his way and doesn't make too much noise when they're at it.

So he lets the topic go, gesturing towards the fridge where Mandy leans against with a nod of his head. “Hey, pass me a beer.”

"Get fucked." She's typing on her phone with rapid fingers as she ignores Mickey, who stares her out for several seconds before admitting defeat with a grunt. He steps down from the stool and walks around the counter to reach the fridge, shoving his sister out of the way in the process.

"I'm seeing him tonight," she states, putting her phone away as Mickey slams the door shut and twists off the cap. "Try not to jerk off too hard while I'm gone."

Mickey responds with a middle finger as she passes him to leave, ponytail swinging with uncharacteristic daintiness as she goes and only a few moments later does Mickey hear the shower running. He takes a swig of his beer, welcomes the taste after the day's labour and tries to decide what to do with his evening.

He's sitting on the sofa when Mandy emerges from her bedroom, a rerun of some bland sitcom plays unwatched on the television while Mickey waits for a reply from Benny after Mickey had invited him out for a beer, the thought of spending the night rotting in front of the TV hardly appealing to him.

He hears the click of his sister’s heels as she walks through, fixing a stubborn hooped earring before checking her hair in the mirror by the door.

"I'll be back late," she promises, almost hopefully and Mickey nods his farewell before she leaves. Right on cue, his phone pings with a new text.

_Sure, Dandy’s at 8?_

* * *

Benny is already seated at the bar when Mickey gets to Dandy’s Brewhouse. There's only one seat free but Mickey's happy enough to stand. It's no surprise that the place is busy considering it's a Friday night, but it's not packed to the point where you can't hear yourself think. It's why Mickey likes it, populated enough to be able to fade into anonymity and to be able to mind his own business but without the ball ache of waiting 30 minutes to get served. He's not the kind of guy to spill his sorrows to the barmaid anyway so the lower the chance of that happening the better.

Benny passes him a bottle as he reaches the bar and he takes it gratefully.

"What's up, brother?" he greets with a nod as Mickey drinks. He's still in his work coveralls, a few smudges of grease on the thighs from where he'd inevitably wiped his hands on them throughout the day but otherwise relatively clean.

"Bored shitless sitting around at home, how’s work?" Mickey admits. If he could have things his way, he'd gladly work 7 days, but Reynolds insists he take at least one day off a week for his own sanity. Cheap motherfucker just doesn't want to pay him overtime, Mickey thinks.

"Man, you seriously wanna talk shop right now? You ever think of getting a fucking hobby?"

"Hey, fuck you, was just asking," There's no malice in it, and Benny doesn't interpret it as such. Mickey never did learn to tone down his aggression, it's a part of him, embedded into his DNA like the colour of his hair or the shade of his eyes. The dominant South Side gene inherited from mother and father alike. Probably why he tolerates Benny, Harlem born and bred in a neighbourhood not dissimilar to the one Mickey grew up in. They speak the same language and Mickey never has to mind his fucking manners. "Spent enough time sitting on my ass in prison," Mickey defends with another pull of his beer. "Just wanted to know if anything new has come in I should know about."

"Seriously, knitting...model making...painting," Benny lists, using his fingers to count until Mickey throws a mostly harmless punch into his bicep with a quirked eyebrow, daring him to continue. Benny laughs it off and Mickey accepts the joke for what it was, a joke. He's learned to laugh at himself a little more since getting out. It's ingrained into his skin, to not let anyone talk down on him no matter how innocent a taunt might be but he's working on that, working on not taking life so seriously, on letting his guard down every once in a while and not jumping to defend himself every time someone so much as looks at him the wrong way.

The rim of his beer bottle sits against his lips as Mickey's eyes glaze over the top shelf behind the bar, deciding if he's gonna need a shot of whiskey at some point tonight. He doesn't want to get wasted, just something to finish the day with, something to say that Mickey didn't waste his only day off this week and managed to enjoy himself for a least a moment of his so called weekend.

"Hey," Benny says with a nod towards the pool table, now free as the couple guys who had been playing finish up their drinks to leave. "You game?"

Mickey shrugs in agreement as he follows Benny to the table. He lets him set up the rack while Mickey chalks up his cue.

"Finished up the bodywork on the Toyota," Benny says, finally answering Mickey's question as he walks around to the front of the table to break. With a satisfying _clack_ the balls scatter. A striped ball lands in the pocket and Benny goes to take another shot.

"Yeah?" Mickey keeps his eyes on the table, deciding his move as Benny's second shot leaves the cue ball in an awkward corner.

"Looking sweet, man. Come up better than I expected."

"Owner see it yet?" Mickey lines up his cue, eyes his way along it to double check the angle before he takes his shot. The ball bounces off the far cushion and nudges an adjacent ball closer to the pocket.

"Yeah, came over this afternoon." Benny lines up his next shot and pots a second ball swiftly. "Liked what he saw."

"Fucking better, been busting my ass on that piece of shit all week." Benny laughs, re-chalking his cue as Mickey takes his next shot and finally sinks his first ball.

"Reynolds did actually mention a new project he was gonna put us on today."

"He say what it was?" Mickey asks. He picks up his bottle takes another drink while debating his next shot. The number 2 ball is at a promising angle and Mickey lines up his cue, cursing when it bounces from the corner of the pocket.

"Some scrappy old Chevrolet from the 70s. Apparently the guy just wants some paint and surface work, maybe a bit of engine maintenance."

"No shit, he wants us on a Chevy?"

"Yeah, man."

"Nice," Mickey says appreciatively as Benny takes his next turn. He's not what anyone would call a car enthusiast, not exactly, but Mickey has always appreciated the classics, ever since wearing a hole in the VHS tape from watching the chase scene from Out for Justice over and over as a kid.

They each trade shots for a while. Mickey gets them another round of drinks and the evening passes as anyone would expect it to. It's a kind of normality that Mickey can let himself enjoy. A night where his life almost feels like it's on track.

He does end up getting them both a shot of whiskey as the night closes and last orders is announced at the bar. He's not drunk, not even tipsy, just buzzed enough to forget the mundane reality of one week ending and another just beginning. One project ending and another on the horizon. An endless cycle to imitate stability and trick you into thinking you're one of those essential pieces that fit together to make the cogs turn and the clock to keep time. Mickey toes the line of functionality, knowing that it wouldn't make a difference, not really, in the grand scheme of things if he were to stop following the rules. The only life he'd fuck up would be his own and, well, he's pretty good at that.

But the pumps are being untapped at the bar now, the last of the glasses clinking in the dishwasher. The barmaid is kicking people out, switching off the lights and Benny pats Mickey fondly on the back as he bids farewell and crosses the road.

Mickey heads home. The streetlights lighting the way in unnatural oranges.

He doesn't expect Mandy to be there before him. She's on the sofa, hair tied up messily on her head, face wiped clean of makeup and wearing sweatpants as she absently flicks through channels on the television.

"Thought you had a date or some shit?" Mickey grumbles as he closes the door behind him.

"I never said it was a date." Her response is clipped and curt and Mickey feels the unkind urge to pick, to scrape away until he finds that exposed live wire just for the sake of it.

"Pretty sure you fucking did." Mickey racks his memory to recall the exact conversation as he toes off his shoes but he'd barely been paying attention at the time so he takes his own assumptions as fact anyway. Mandy doesn't reply. She stares fixedly on the television, determined not to look at Mickey and betray whatever it is she's feeling. "He turned you down, didn't he?" Mickey deduces, feeling the smirk tug at the corners of his mouth. "You seriously sulking cause some dude didn't want you hopping on his dick for once?"

"He's fucking gay, Mickey. It wasn't a date," she argues and Mickey can't tell if she had just learned that fact tonight which is why she's acting like such a bitch, or if she really did just go out for drinks with a new, what? Friend?

"I coulda fucking told ya that. He show up wearing a fucking tutu or what?" Mandy tosses the remote at him, leaving a dent in the door behind him after he ducks out of the way.

"Jesus, fuck! Touchy Bitch."

Mickey knows he maybe took the joke too far, he can't stop himself sometimes but apologies have never been in his nature. He picks. He sees a weakness and picks at it until he exposes the nerve, until people lose their temper, until he can justify why he spends his days off alone.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Mickey."

But Mickey is already halfway to his bedroom; what was starting to become a pleasant evening now soured on its final note.

* * *

Mickey is wiping grease off his hands when they roll the Chevy into the garage. These kinds of muscle cars always surprise him with how big they are up close and Mickey allows himself to just look at it in awe as Reynold's discusses the job with the owner, a man in his late 60s, desperately clinging to his youth. The kind of guy who refers to his car as though it were his child although, from looking at the car, a severely neglected child.

Mickey runs his hand over the bonnet as they talk. There's some crazing on the paintwork, the little cracks and bumps rough under his fingertips, forming a mosaic effect. There's no doubt this car needs some work. It looks like the thing hasn't been on the road in years, instead collecting dust as a pitiful showpiece in a garage.

There's a dent, a misalignment on the bonnet that ruins the symmetry. Mickey brushes his fingers over it several times to be sure, takes a few steps back to look at the car from the front, sure enough the right wing is lifted. He knows that's never a good sign.

"Hey," he says to Benny, "get over here, take a look at this." Benny takes a moment to secure the tyre on the Sedan they'd been working on and meets Mickey by the car. "Feel this." Mickey runs his hand along the bonnet again to indicate the source of the problem. Benny follows suit.

"The frame?"

Mickey pops the hood, grabs his flashlight from his tool belt. It doesn't take long to see the real extent of the problem.

"Hey, Reynolds!" Mickey calls. He can feel his heart in his stomach at seeing the extent of the damage. There's no way this thing is even road legal, it's a miracle it's still in one piece. Reynolds is still mid conversation with the customer and doesn't look entirely too pleased to be interrupted but better the guy hear it sooner than later. They wander over without any sense of urgency and Mickey has to refrain from losing his temper. Any time today, he thinks. "This car's got fucking cancer," he states, not bothering to mind his language as he passes the flashlight to his boss and steps aside to allow him full access to the bonnet.

The diagnosis is bleak.

In the end, the owner grants them permission to fix up whatever needs it, including the decades’ worth of rot eating the car from the inside. There's no quick fix for a mess like that, this is structural damage, buckling the very bones of the vehicle. Still, the owner says to spare no expense which only serves to make Mickey hate him further, the rich fuck. Still, it's money in his pocket at the end of the day.

He and Benny spend the best part of the morning simply compiling a list of work for the Chevy and estimating a duration for the project. It's going to be weeks. Aside from the paintwork and the rotting frame, both of which promise to be the source of many headaches to come, the passenger door doesn't lock, The tyres are practically worn to the rim and the engine is definitely not in a healthy shape. Mickey is certain the thing is riddled with further problems lurking beneath the surface that are bound to crop up during the process of fixing it up so he doesn’t have much hope of this being a straight forward job.

It takes a backseat for the rest of the afternoon as Mickey and Benny direct their attention to the Sedan and doing what they can to finish up everything else as soon as possible, ready to give their full attention to the Chevrolet tomorrow.

"Wanna grab a beer after this? Come up with a game plan for this rust bucket," Mickey asks, reaching for the lug wrench, tightening the last few nuts on the final tyre change of the day.

"Can't man, taking Sadie to dinner," Benny apologises, "that shit can wait 'til tomorrow anyways, don't you ever quit thinking about work?" Mickey shrugs. He doesn't have an excuse because, no, not really. He likes to be on top of things, in control, know where he stands and where he's going. As pathetic as he knows it is, this job is the only place he can really have that in his life right now. "You need to get yourself some ass, man," Benny declares, "put all that energy you got somewhere else, you get me?" He winks and Mickey freezes.

“Shut the fuck up, talking ‘bout that shit,” he hisses, eyes darting around to check no one else is near enough to have heard.

“Will you relax, ass is universal,” Benny assures him with a roll of his eyes, “everybody got an ass. Chill, man, aint nobody else knows, alright.”

Jon and Dario are on the other side of the shop and Reynolds is in his office, no one is around to have heard anything and, while he knows Benny isn’t wrong, Mickey still can’t stand to take any chances.

Biting his lip, he wills his racing heart to return to normal and considers the fact that he may have overreacted. Benny is the only person not related to him – and who he hasn’t banged – who knows about Mickey. He remembers his hands sweating, the instinctive terror. It wasn’t a huge announcement, or a sweeping declaration, more just a meagre clarification, a simple correction which left Mickey paralysed with fear until Benny clapped him on the back with a _sorry man, my bad_. He’s still not sure if he’ll ever get used to it being brought up in casual conversation, or the frequent reminders that someone else _knows_ and that he exists with that label outside of his own periphery, but the weight it lifted was enough to give Mickey some breathing space.

That doesn’t mean he’s happy for the whole shop to know. Mickey may be more comfortable with who he is now, more so than he ever has been before, but he’s not so certain the guys at the garage are gonna throw him a fucking pride parade. 

He changes before heading home, but he can still feel the oil underneath his fingertips, his skin feels dirty and he knows he must have smudged some grease on his face at some point.

He unlocks the front door with the intent of having a shower before anything else but, after closing the door behind him and noting the familiar hum of the heater and the sound of water running, he curses at Mandy beating him to it.

"Hurry the fuck up," he calls in annoyance. She's had all fucking day to shower and Mickey isn't pleased at the fact he has to wet his face at the kitchen sink just to feel somewhat clean. He washes his hands too, scrubbing his stained palms and underneath his fingernails and around his wrists.

There's a knock at the door as he's drying his hands and Mickey glances towards the bathroom to determine whether Mandy is going to be out any time soon. He isn't expecting anyone so no doubt it's for her, whoever it is.

They're persistent, that much is clear as they knock once more. "Jesus, I'm fucking coming," Mickey shouts angrily, marching towards the door.

He swings it open, ensuring that his features are anything but welcoming. He's not sure who he expected out of the handful of Mandy’s friends he’s met in the past but a tall redhead doesn’t match anyone he’s encountered before. He looks almost surprised that someone answered the door which is ridiculous since he's the one making a racket knocking against the thing and in the few moments the guy spends floundering, Mickey just about uses up the last of his patience.

"Yeah?" he says with an expectant shake of his head that seems to shake the guy back into the present.

"Uh, I'm here for Mandy?" He sounds like a kid picking up his date for fucking prom. Mickey maintains cold eye contact with the stranger before yelling out to his sister.

"Mandy!"

God, she rebounds fast, Mickey thinks. Not last night she was sulking over Billy fucking Elliot and now this fuck is picking her up on a Saturday night. Mickey sizes him up, eyes trailing his body as he decides he shouldn't have an issue beating the shit out of this one should he turn out to be another piece of shit, it'd certainly be more of a challenge than whoever she'd gone out with last night. He's tall, annoyingly tall, but Mickey's doesn't need height on his side to win a fight.

"Ian! Shit, I'm sorry, I know I'm super fucking late!" Mickey spins on the spot to see his sister, frantically towel drying her hair. "I'll be ready in ten, maybe fifteen tops," she promises before turning to Mickey, face shifting seamlessly from apologetic to annoyance, "let him in, shit for brains."

Mickey steps to the side, allowing the guy, _Ian_ , to enter before closing it with perhaps a little too much force afterwards. He hates when he has to meet the guys Mandy's screwing, or plans on screwing at least.

"It's cool, movie doesn't start until 8:30 anyway," Ian says with a kind shrug, Mandy gestures for him to take a seat on the sofa with one last promise to be quick before retreating back to her room to finish getting ready. Ian doesn’t in fact sit, choosing instead to hover awkwardly. Mickey considers hiding out in his room, making himself scarce until they leave but, fuck, he lives here too and he ain't gonna be forced out of his own space.

"You're Mandy's brother, right?" Ian attempts as Mickey makes his way back the kitchen. "I'm Ian. Ian Gallagher.” He reaches out an introductory hand which Mickey purposefully ignores. Who the fuck introduces themselves with their full name like that anyway? Fucking weirdos, that’s who.

"Yeah, I gathered that much," he says dismissively as Ian reluctantly lowers his proffered handshake, eyes darting about the room as he detects Mickey’s clearly unenthusiastic attitude until Mickey takes a moment to pause, hand resting on the fridge handle. He might not have been paying attention last night but the vague memory pesters him now, Mandy gushing about the guy she'd met, despite her insistence later that it hadn't been a date. _Ian could kick your ass,_ she’d assured him when Mickey had given her shit.

Mickey's eyes shoot back to the redhead. Huh.

He'd noticed before when he had been sizing him but now he allows himself just a moment longer to let his eyes linger on the firm biceps and easily filled shirt.

 _This_ is the fucking dancer Mandy was doe eyed for? It doesn't quite compute in his mind. The guy clearly works out but Mickey can hardly imagine him doing pirouettes in a goddamn leotard. He expected someone a little more...delicate. Mandy had said he was gay and he'd pictured someone more obviously so, with the whole limp wristed bullshit Mickey has so far spent his whole life distancing himself from.

He doesn't realise how lost he is in his thoughts until a crash from Mandy's room and a hissed curse brings him back to the present after what must have now reached an uncomfortable amount of time.

"You want a beer?" he offers, the most effective peace offering he knows but then Ian is shaking his head and turning down the offer.

"I shouldn't." Mickey frowns. What does that even mean, it's a yes or no question.

"What, you on some sorta health kick or something?" He asks almost mockingly, leering at the guy in his too tight t-shirt.

"Something like that."

Mickey is at a loss again. Why is it his job to entertain Mandy's company anyway. He wonders again why he didn't just kill time in his room until they left. He grabs himself a beer anyway and leans against the counter as he drinks. "Mandy's really surprised me," Ian ploughs on as though Mickey gives a shit. He's seemingly oblivious to the awkward tension in the air as he continues. "Says she's never taken a dance class but she's picked up the steps real quick."

Mickey acknowledges the fact that Mandy neglected to tell him she'd actually been taking _dance classes_ instead of, as she'd implied, just been using the gym and stores that nugget of information away to use at some point.

"'Zat so," he grunts with disinterest.

"How about you?"

"Do I fucking dance?" Mickey raises his eyebrows, daring Ian to keep talking.

"No, I mean," Ian fumbles, stumbling over his own tongue in the process, "You look like you work out, was just wondering, you know..." Mickey knows what he looks like, and it's not someone who looks like they're down to chit chat. Fresh from work, vest still filthily smeared with grease and arms that could strangle you in a minute flat crossed guardedly across his chest.

"I did some weights when I was in prison," he declares, eyeing this Ian kid to watch his reaction. He knows exactly what he's doing. He's looking to intimidate, sprinkle in the fact that he's done time. He doesn't know why he always feels the need to. There's just something unsettling to Mickey about meeting knew people, that he has to specify that _I'm not like you_ in any way he can, distance himself, make it so no one can touch him. It's his shield and it has protected Mickey pretty well so far.

Unexpectedly, Ian doesn't so much as flinch at the confession, he almost seems eager as he responds.

"Oh yeah? What're your reps?"

Mickey can't tell why the fuck he cares, or if he's just trying to be competitive or some shit but he just shrugs his response. He didn't exactly train for any kind of purpose or anything. He just lifted to pass the time, to give his body something to do until his arms became lead at the end of the day. Anything to push through, to fight the idleness. Nothing to do in there but work out after all. He didn't keep track of it, keep any kind of record of what he could do, he just did it.

"Well if you're interested -" Ian rises from the sofa and takes out his wallet. Mickey frowns, wondering where the hell this waste of a time conversation is going as Ian walks towards the kitchen where Mickey stands guarded, "- here." Ian pushes a card into Mickey's hand. Mickey keeps an uncertain eye on Ian before glancing down at it carefully. It's a coupon for a month's free membership at the same fitness centre Ian presumably works at. "They give us these to try and encourage new members,” Ian explains, "Got a whole bunch of 'em just going to waste so..." Ian trails off, suddenly unsure of his gesture of kindness.

Mickey eyes Ian once more, unsure what exactly to say. He knows the place. At least, he passes it occasionally on days he decides to walk to work instead of getting the bus. He’s never been inside but as far as he can tell it’s some pretentious hipster hangout. He’s not sure if Ian is waiting for any kind of response but Mickey offers none, the growing tension eased only as Mandy finally returns. 

"Ready to go?" she asks, grabbing her backpack from the floor behind the sofa.

"Sure," Ian says before casting one last friendly smile Mickey's way and turning to follow Mandy out.

Mickey bites his lip, watches as they both leave. He glances down once more at the coupon in his hand, turns it over a couple times. It's not a terrible idea. It'd get him out of the house a couple nights a week, and he supposes it couldn't hurt to work out a little more again. Working at the shop keeps him active but he knows it's nothing compared to the relentless training he did while locked up. He looks up once more to the door where Ian had just left. Maybe Benny was right, maybe he needs to put his energy somewhere else for a change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey's opinion on Yoga, Lattes and Scented Candles in no way reflect that of the author.
> 
> (Mickey's opinion on Kale Smoothies however definitely do reflect that of the author).

He hadn't realised how much until now, but Mickey had missed the post workout burn, when your muscles feel loose and numb as the blood pumps around your body and your limbs thrum with the aftershocks of spent energy. His chest burns from exertion and he can feel the clammy stickiness of sweat on his skin, but, for the first time in a long while, he feels satisfied. He knows he'll ache tomorrow, it's been too long since he'd last exerted himself like this, really pushed himself to the limits and felt the repercussions afterwards, but it's the kind of dull ache that feels earned, well deserved as it follows you around the whole day to remind you of what your body is capable of.

Mickey can't remember the last time he'd tested his body like this. He'd stubbornly worked out his rep max for a few exercises after giving some of the machines a test run, favouring the bench press since it’s what he’s used to. He now has something in mind to push and improve upon, ready to shove in Ian's smug face should he bring it up again, not that he's doing it in any way for Gallagher's benefit.

He’s glad he came, now that he’s finished up his first workout in months, but initially there had been a sense of nervousness. Not only had he done no real weight training since he’d left prison, there was also the dread that he’d end up running into Mandy’s new best pal, which is an encounter he’d rather not deal with. There’d also been the pure principality of not wanting to associate himself in anyway with a place called LiveBrite Fitness, but Mickey was able to set that prejudice aside.

As far as small mercies go, Mickey thankfully has yet to see Gallagher around, but then he doesn’t expect to see him down here, he can’t exactly picture him doing a 300 pound deadlift after all. Ultimately, he somehow got himself a decent deal with a free membership though, and Mickey can’t deny that so what the fuck ever, he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

He grabs his towel and wipes his face, then takes a few swigs from his water bottle. Despite everything, he feels good. It's a feeling he's not used to, but the workout leaves him buzzed, accomplished.

He heads upstairs to change, taking the steps two at a time, trying to remember the way back to the locker rooms. The place is bigger than Mickey had imagined, there's a fully equipped gym on the basement floor alongside some squash courts (whatever the fuck squash is) and a swimming pool somewhere. Mickey can smell the overtly chemical scent of chlorine as he leaves the gym, but he has no plans of seeking it out. Swimming was never his thing and only serves to remind him of summers that should have been, standing next to not-so-pleasant memories of the ones he did have.

On the first floor is the gymnasium and, annoyingly on the way to the locker room, the dance studio that has Mickey quickening his step as he passes, just in case. He also passes a spinning class filled with suburban moms who probably all own SUVs in various colours and some kind of yoga class which, Mickey decides, is the most pointless form of exercise out there after seeing a bunch of hipster yuppies pretend to be at peace with the world just because they can contort their spines into unnatural positions. Fucking freaks.

There's more on the upper floor but Mickey has no intention of venturing that far, happy instead to stick to the weights downstairs. His trial membership is only for use of the gym and swimming pool anyway, not that he's inclined to try a fucking yoga class even if he was able to.

He showers quickly, the muscle ache making itself known when he reaches to wash his hair but feeling refreshed and contentedly buzzed once he's dressed again.

On his way to the exit the familiar smell of coffee engulfs his senses. There's a café right by the exit, which Mickey had passed on the way in and he can’t deny the fact that he could do with a caffeine hit. It had been a long day of picking apart that piece of shit Chevy on top of the added effort of hitting the gym and Mickey reasons that he's not paying a dime for the use of this place, he may as well offer up a meagre three bucks for a coffee. It's about as charitable as Mickey is ever likely to get.

He orders, none of that waste of time fancy latte shit with the fucking hearts stenciled on top, just plain old fashioned American Coffee - responsibly sourced from Columbia, the handwritten appendix on the chalkboard menu states as Mickey’s eyes glance over it.

After paying and being informed his drink will be a few minutes while they brew a fresh batch, Mickey waits opposite the end of the counter, leaning against the railing which separates the seating area from the counter. The barista had given him an uncertain look when she’d spied the lettering inked onto his knuckles and Mickey had to bite back an offensive remark. This street is as south side as any other in this shithole neighbourhood so Mickey can only guess at what gives these pretentious assholes the right to act like they’re better than he is.

There’s a couple in the window making sappy eyes at each other over some complicated looking yogurt. The guy isn’t wearing socks with his shoes and the girl has actual fucking flowers woven into her hair. Mickey wants to barf. He taps out a reply to Benny about some parts they're gonna need as he waits, reminding himself that he has perfectly good coffee at home while he taps his fingers against the back of his phone in an attempt to distract himself.

"Mickey?"

He looks up, but there's no drink waiting for him on the counter, there is, however, a flash of orange which catches his eye standing beside him.

Ah fuck.

His face is a little pink, hair damp and he's wearing a pair of light grey fitted sweatpants and carrying a gym bag over one shoulder. Two things are clear, first that Ian’s class must have not long finished and second, that Mickey has definitely made a fatal mistake in stopping for coffee.

"How's it going?" Ian persists. Mickey glances over towards the baristas, anytime today with his coffee would be great, he thinks.

"Fine, I guess," he replies while refusing to look at Ian and leaving the conversation with as little room as possible to become anything other than a quick greeting in passing. He doesn’t want to engage, he doesn’t want to exchange pleasantries and he certainly doesn’t want to acknowledge the fact that he’s here because of Ian’s unjustified generosity.

Ian clearly has other ideas.

"How's Mandy?"

"Ask her your fucking self, man,” he bites back, “you see her more than I do." Mickey just can't help being cruel after all. He casts his eyes back to his phone, hoping for something to occupy him until Ian leaves.

"Just making conversation, asshole. Who pissed in your cereal this morning?"

Mickey glances up with raised eyebrows. The last thing he'd anticipated was to be talked back to. He expects to see the offense clearly on his face, the disbelief that a near stranger could be so needlessly rude, especially after the favour Ian had gifted him. Instead he's smiling with what looks like amusement, like he's in on the joke or something. It wasn't supposed to be a joke, Mickey thinks bitterly, but whatever his intention, Ian is barely fazed. It almost reminds him of the easy friendship he has with Benny, the name calling and the roasting, not batting an eyelid at the fact that Mickey can often be a dick for no reason other than he's bored, uncomfortable or all of the above.

"Sorry to disappoint," Mickey glances back at his phone, swiping aimlessly through apps to feign disinterest, "but I'm not in the habit of keeping track of my sister or making small talk with the guys she was hoping to bone." He says it meanly, defensively, and Ian has the audacity to laugh, fully and freely with teeth and everything, leaving Mickey to wonder what the hell this guy's deal is as he eyes him with suspicion. Mickey is the way he is for one simple reason, it means people leave him the fuck alone and right now he's not sure what exactly he's supposed to do with Ian's unshakeable and unguarded joy at being the subject of Mickey's ire. His gut tells him to challenge it, to really make this guy sweat but the gladness he exudes is somehow contagious, and as much as he’s loathed to admit it, a reluctant lightness finds its way into his chest at the sight.

" _That_ was an uncomfortable conversation," Ian admits humorously. It takes Mickey a moment to realise what exactly he’s talking about until he remembers his sister sulking on the sofa after her alleged not-a-date with Ian.

"Oh yeah?” he says, reluctantly grinning to himself, “she try it on with ya?” Mickey knows he’d been right when he’d called her out the other night.

"Didn't quite get that far," Ian admits lightly, "but it was heading in that direction so I had to set the record straight pretty quick. She's fun though, I like hanging out with her." 

Mickey shrugs because he has no comment to that claim. He and Mandy might live together, tolerate one another's existence, they even on rare occasions somewhat like each other but they don't hang out. Not if they can help it.

"Yeah she's, whatever," he says awkwardly, as they lapse inevitably into silence. This is exactly why he doesn't engage with any of Mandy's friends; because beyond Mandy herself – which is a subject Mickey isn’t a particular expert in – there’s fuck all else to talk about. Mickey lets his eyes wander back to the coffee machine, watching the slow, laborious drip of the coffee from the filter. A couple of girls who were definitely after him in line collect their drinks as Mickey waits with growing impatience. How the fuck is it faster to make a frappu-fucking-whatever than a simple coffee?

"So, you like the gym here?" Ian says, steering the conversation, Mickey wonders if the guy ever quits or if he's simply incapable of reading the room. He finds himself replying easier now though, now that the initial unpleasantries had, apparently, been exchanged, even if he’d rather be at home.

"Equipment’s cleaner than what I'm used to," he replies, thinking back to the beat-up old weights he used to bench press in prison. Again, Ian barely bats an eyelid at the implication that Mickey has done time, even if Mickey doesn’t state it as explicitly as he had before. "This place aint really my scene though," he admits.

Ian accepts this with a nod before he adds "I'm guessing that Kale Smoothie on the counter isn't for you?"

Mickey makes a face at the green monstrosity as another guy who had definitely paid after he had picks up his drink. Jesus Christ, he’d ordered a plain fucking coffee, how long does it take?

"When I was a kid, this was a parking lot," Ian reminisces, "found Frank - my dad - passed out under an old Jeep here once but apparently this street is now being marketed as an up and coming neighbourhood," he says with air quotations. "Just a bunch a rich assholes funneling their money into the place to drive up rent prices if you ask me."

Mickey quirks an eyebrow.

"You allowed to talk shit about the people you work for like that?"

"Technically we pay _them_ to rent the studio space so I can say whatever I want," Ian justifies with an impish smirk. Mickey looks away as he tries to hide his own impressed grin and decidedly _doesn't_ ask Ian to elaborate on his business ventures.

"Shithole I grew up in is a fucking scented candle store now," Mickey admits instead, recalling the sheer rage he'd felt at seeing the transformation for himself for the first time and the restraint it took to stop himself from smashing a brick through the window or worse.

"It's bullshit," Ian scoffs before pausing as a thought seems to occur to him, "Wait, you're not talking about Cathy's are you? Opened last year, corner on Trumbull Avenue?"

"Yeah," he says slowly with a frown, "you been stocking up on scented fucking candles, Twinkle Toes?"

"Fuck off, I grew up right around the corner, I remember when they tore down the old house that was there not long ago."

Mickey can’t help but cast his mind back, try to remember ever seeing some scrawny ginger kid but the memories from his childhood are hazy. Growing up, his energy was used primarily for staying alive, not remembering the faces of various neighbourhood kids.

"No shit."

Mickey's drink eventually, _finally_ , arrives and he swipes it up, feeling the heat of the cup seeping through to his fingers. It's a thousand degrees outside, despite being early evening now, and he wonders why he even decided to stop here in the first place.

"Hey, you wanna grab a table?" Ian asks daringly, picking up his own drink as it arrives as Mickey shrugs the weight of his bag on his shoulder, ready to leave. Inevitably, Mickey's fight or flight instinct kicks in.

Because it hits him like a ton of bricks what exactly Ian is hinting at, hoping for with an earnest, almost shy smile, the reality of his sexuality occurring to Mickey with sudden clarity. He might not partake in the whole dating thing, avoids it like the plague in fact, but he's not blind to how people usually go about getting to know someone for that purpose. He has no idea how Ian even managed to decipher the fact that Mickey is _that way_ , but he feels the urge to flee stronger than ever.

He doesn't get to know guys, he doesn't go on dates, he barely exchanges more than a few words to the guys he bangs and he certainly doesn't intend for Ian to become one of them.

"Nah, man. I - I gotta be somewhere." Mickey surprises himself with the lie, knowing in any other situation, with any other asshole, he wouldn't hesitate to lay down some truths and express how much he does not want to sit and sip coffee like a pair of chums.

He wonders how this even happened, how Ian had wriggled his way into an actual conversation that didn't have Mickey contemplating beating the shit out of him for it, how he'd fooled Mickey for a hot minute that he was almost capable of having a normal, half way polite interaction.

"I guess I'll catch you later then?" Ian is hopeful, earnest and Mickey despises it.

"Sure. Whatever," he says non-committedly and with a nod aimed at Ian, a half-hearted goodbye and his final hesitation before leaving.

Outside, the heat is relentless, beating down against the sidewalk. Mickey lets out a huff before taking a sip of his too hot coffee, deciding that, okay, maybe this Columbian shit is good.

He purposely tries not to think about the conversation they'd just had as he heads home. Tries not to think how surprisingly easy it had been to talk to him once Ian had pushed enough to force just a few of Mickey's bricks to crumble a little as he'd ploughed through the boundaries Mickey keeps in place, but of course the thoughts come.

He doesn't all together hate Gallagher, as much as he tries to come up with a reason to. The guy has hardly done anything to warrant Mickey's disdain but it's the feeling Mickey is left with afterwards that he's not so sure he likes. He feels uncertain and itchy and in a way that he can't even begin to describe. It feels almost like there's unfinished business between the two of them and Mickey thinks again of the free gym membership and the feeling of owing somebody that he can't stand.

Mandy isn't home, Mickey realises as he closes the apartment door behind him. The place is never quiet like this when she's here, whether she's watching TV or blasting music. Mickey doesn't mind it so much, he'd grown used to living with noise when growing up, but it is nice on the nights she's out to enjoy the silence.

He makes dinner, an uninspiring meal comprised of boiled pasta and a jar of tomato sauce and lets the silence eat away the minutes, the clock ticking away determinedly incorrect on the wall as it does. There are two seats at the table, but Mickey has never seen more than one of them occupied at any singular moment. It almost makes him miss the days when the kitchen table of his childhood home would be filled with delinquents, the excitement and nerves of whatever crime they were about to pull thrumming in the air as they laid their plans out to finalise from every possible angle. It had been dangerous and the thrill of it was what kept Mickey going.

He tries to convince himself his life is better now. It has to be.

Time alone was something Mickey never had growing up and he's still figuring out if it's something he likes now. After eating, he washes up his single plate and cutlery set, leaving them to dry beside the sink before skulking back to his bedroom, ready to while away the hours until tomorrow. While he isn't thrilled about how often he finds himself left alone with only his own thoughts for company these days, knowing the depressing path they often insist on venturing onto, it does mean there are certain things he can attend to now without keeping one eye on the door in the process.

He doesn't plan on it. He's not in any particularly significant _mood_ for it, his day was as bland as any in terms of his sex drive, but as Mickey kills time alone in his bedroom, ignoring the meaningless noise from the ancient TV he has propped up on the dresser playing a rerun of an overhyped sitcom, he can't help where his idle hands find themselves, almost of their own accord. Before he even realises what he's doing, the heel of his palm is pressing firmly and methodically against his crotch, teasing himself experimentally, as though testing his own body's willingness.

It turns out his body is quite willing.

Mickey looks down at himself, the first jolt of pleasure singing through his veins, and quickens the pace. He can feel himself hardening and it only takes a few more habitual strokes against his jeans for his mind to make the easy decision which has him unbuckling his belt and sinking his hand under the waistband, gripping himself firmly while his eyes close with the sensation, the promise of pleasure. He switches the TV off with his free hand - there's no fucking way he's jerking off to the sound of bad jokes and a generic laugh track - while his mind scrambles for something to fixate upon. Images from porn flood his mind, of firm, muscular men and long, hard cocks, thoughts that had spent so many years of his youth forbidden, banished to the darkest corners of Mickey's consciousness. He tries to recall the feeling of having a warm eager body up against his own - though it has been a while by this point - as he strokes himself with one hand, the other blindly pulling open the drawer next to the bed in search of lube.

Fuck it, he thinks, as he locates the bottle and pops the lid, if he's gonna do it, might as well make it good.

* * *

If there's one place Mickey can really feel the effects of his newfound hobby, it's lifting tyres and working with his arms raised above his head all day. The ache in his muscles has persisted throughout the week since his first session at the gym, and though it has begun to ease off a bit by now, Mickey's arms still feel like a lead weight by the time lunch rolls around.

The Chevy is looking increasingly like a scrap heap the more they work at it. Benny has buffed out what had remained of the paintwork to reveal the dull, uninspiring grey base underneath and they'd been slowly disassembling the vehicle throughout the week to get to the full extent of the rust damage.

Mickey is astounded the car is still in one piece as chunk after chunk of rotted steel comes apart in his hands with just a little effort. There's no strength in the framework; the car is nothing more than a metal coffin in waiting.

"When was the last time this piece of shit was even on the road?" Mickey asks incredulously because there's no way anyone has driven it recently and lived. He's on his hands and knees, reaching into the foot well of the passenger seat to get to the rotted cage while Benny stands above holding a torch to light the space.

"Decades probably," Benny answers, "Reynolds said the guy bought it brand new. Probably conceived his fucking kids in this thing." Mickey makes a face as his mind conjures the image against his will. "He hasn't driven it in years though," Benny continues, "wants to fix it up and sell it apparently."

"He's better off selling it for fucking parts," Mickey mutters, rising from the floor and wiping his hands together to rid them of rust fragments. "We gotta beef up this framework somehow or the whole thing is just gonna buckle." Benny nods in agreement as Mickey gives his aching arms another stretch. The week has left him sore and he makes the decision to give himself a break tonight, figuring it was about time he gave himself a rest day.

"You okay, man? You pull a muscle or something?" Benny asks after Mickey winces, "you been pulling faces all day."

"Fuck off, I'm fine."

"If you say so, champ," Benny says, humouring him as he punches him playfully on the arm, causing Mickey to grunt in pain with eyes squeezed shut."

"Bastard."

"Hey, Milkovich! Warner! come check this out!" Mickey looks up at Jon calling them over, takes his gloves off and follows Benny to the Toyota Camry he'd been working on.

"What, you can't handle a simple oil change by yourself?" Mickey can't imagine what could possibly warrant another two pairs of eyes looking at it.

"No, over there," Jon says nodding towards where a young blonde is talking animatedly to Reynolds while gesturing wildly towards her car parked outside.

It's hot as hell outside and the girl is obviously dressed for the weather, but it's hardly what Mickey would describe as provocative, even if he were into that sort of thing. Her long hair cascades gently down her back, covering her shoulders and her skirt, while tight, covers her modestly to her mid thighs. He's seen Mandy wear less for job interviews.

"Girl like that is just _begging_ for it, right?" Jon whistles loudly, loud enough for her to glance over her shoulder, giving both Mickey and Jon a hesitant look which Mickey realises is aimed at him as much as it is Jon. She quickly reverts her attention back to Reynolds, her actions somewhat more reserved now as she shrinks back into herself.

Mickey punches Jon hard on the shoulder.

"The fuck is wrong with you?"

"You don't think she wants me?" Jon asks suggestively, giving the girl a slimy wink when she looks over at them again as Reynold's follows her outside to take a look at the car.

"Yeah, I'm sure banging greasy assholes like you is high up on her list of priorities," Mickey mutters.

Jon shrugs, "even better when they put up a fight.”

"Ay, come on dude, I got a sister and shit like that ain't funny." He remembers the things Terry used to spit nastily into Mandy’s face when she'd come home from wherever she'd spent the night while he'd been drinking himself stupid on the couch. He remembers the beating he'd got after he'd pulled him off her one night.

"Jesus, man, you gotta be hopping on my dick every time a make a joke? Just trying to have a little fun," It's arrogant and challenging, and Mickey can tell the guy is begging for him to talk back, to fight, it's part of the game he plays mockingly with faux innocence, escalating a situation as far as it will go and Mickey is sick of it, sick of the fact that he falls for it every time.

"How about you try making a fucking funny one once in a while then, huh?"

"Well sorry for offending your delicate sensibilities, your majesty," Jon taunts with a mockingly exaggerated bent wrist.

Mickey laughs humourlessly, wiping a thumb cautiously against his lower lip as he foolishly lets the insult grip him.

"You wanna run that by me again, shithead?"

The shop is almost silent by now, as the rest of Mickey's co-workers clue in to the fact that there's a fight brewing.

"I aint saying nothing man, but you don't need to get your panties in a twist just because a girl has never wanted to touch your dick."

Mickey smirks, barely allowing himself a moment's hesitation before he goes for him, fists clenched and ready to do some serious damage, all rational thought diminished to nothing but the enticing thought of Jon's face bruised and bloody. Before he can lay a hand on the guy though, Benny - knowing Mickey as he does and pre-empting the attack - has Mickey by the elbow before he gets the chance to do something stupid like shatter the asshole's nose.

Jon laughs loudly as Mickey is restrained, only serving to make the thought of breaking his face all the more appealing as he grunts wildly at the effort of pulling away but Benny's grip is strong and Mickey's arms still throb from pushing weights all week.

"Come on, man. You don't wanna do this" Benny says, dragging Mickey forcefully away by the arm. He takes a heavy breath and lets himself be manoeuvred away before shrugging Benny off him, feeling the uncompromisable need to not be touched, his skin on fire, as he forces himself to calm down. Benny leads him away to the break room and Mickey lets himself follow but not before giving Jon one last threatening look.

The break room is barely equipped at best; a mini fridge in the corner, a microwave that leaves your food cold in the middle and a water cooler surround some plastic garden furniture that looks like it was bought from a thrift shop in the 80s.

Mickey grabs the meagre tub of leftover pasta from last night out of the fridge and takes a seat while Benny heats up his own lunch. He pops the lid on the container and stares at the bleak meal, his appetite shrinking by the second.

"You can't let shit get to you like that, man," Benny says without so much as a glance over his shoulder. "Can't be starting fights over stupid shit all the time."

"How the fuck did I start a fight?" Mickey asks incredulously, aggressively stabbing his fork into his lunch and gesturing wildly with his free hand despite Benny still having his back to him. "You heard what he fucking said to me."

"And it aint no different to how he talks to anyone else. You know nobody knows shit, right? This aint about... _that._ "

Mickey glances at the door as he says it, old habits die hard, before Benny continues "That's just how the guys here talk to each other."

"Yeah, I know how people fucking talk, I've been to prison, that don't mean I gotta fucking sit here and take it,"

Benny sighs as he places his lunch opposite Mickey and takes a seat.

"You're lucky Reynolds didn't see that shit."

Mickey says nothing as he takes a bite of his cold pasta. Now that he's calmer, the spike of adrenaline fading away, he can see how easily he had fallen for Jon’s taunts, how he'd overreacted over some meaningless shit talking. He can't help it, it's part of his Milkovich upbringing, rule number one, absolutely no one can talk shit about you.

Mickey has since learned that the real world doesn't necessarily abide by those rules and there's not a whole lot he can do about it unless he wants to get himself into trouble again. It feels like no matter where he goes, who he meets, there’s always a battle, some kind of pissing contest where Mickey feels the need to beat down anyone who implies he’s weak. He’s had enough.

After Mickey had been berated, there's not much need for conversation. He and Benny had been side by side all week working on the Chevy and Mickey is quite happy to take a 15 minute break from socialising while Benny glances through the newspaper he picks up every morning just to do the crossword. It's the one thing that had surprised Mickey after getting to know him, the guy was actually a hidden genius when it came to that kind of thing, but he rarely bragged about it.

Before long, Mickey is restless again. It’s not often he uses up his full lunch hour, taking just enough time to eat whatever uninteresting leftovers he has for himself before getting back to work and today is no exception. Mickey finishes his food and leaves Benny to his crossword.

"I'll catch ya back on the floor," he says by way of departure.

Out in the shop, Jon is now getting his hands dirty under the hood of a bright yellow VW beetle, explaining the engine mechanisms with unnecessary detail to the girl who now looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. Mickey shakes his head as he gets back to scraping away at the rust ridden Chevy, forcing himself to ignore the guy.

Fuck having a rest day, he decides, he needs to let off some steam.

* * *

Mickey pushes himself at the gym that night, harder than is likely to be healthy as his muscles burn and protest. He knows he's gonna regret it tomorrow but still he perseveres, sweat dripping from his brow.

He decides to call it quits after just 20 minutes though, knowing he's doing his body no good and starting to feel at least marginally better.

He wipes the sweat from his face with a clean towel, sitting on the shiny leather seat of the machine press, chest heaving. There's a cooking show playing on one of the TVs that Mickey hadn't been watching, music plays over the speakers, generic but listenable. The place is filled with just a handful of people, doing exactly what he is, minding their own business. It’s not a competition like it had been in the yard when he was locked up. He doesn’t feel the eyes of dozens of other inmates, sizing him up as he pushes more than he should reasonably be able to, deciding whether or not it would be worth picking a fight with him.

He likes the feeling of anonymity.

Mickey trudges up the stairs with heavy legs, wondering whose idea it was to put the locker rooms on a separate floor anyway when he hears music. It’s not unusual except for the fact that it’s considerably louder than it had been throughout the week. He reaches the top of the stairs and realises why, the doors to the dance studio have been left open tonight.

The music is loud enough that Mickey can actually make out the lyrics to the song instead of just a meaningless thump of a beat and he knows it's going to be one of those songs that weasels its way into his ear, playing on a loop for _hours_.

_Make your move on me…_

He’d seen Gallagher annoyingly frequently throughout the week, on his way to the locker rooms, outside the coffee shop, it seems that the guy always just had to pop up. Determined not to make a _thing_ out of the fact that they run into each other so frequently though, Mickey tended to keep his eyes down, feigning ignorance at having noticed him at all and hoping to make a quick escape without having to endure any more unnecessary chatter. It had worked out so well so far.

He approaches the open door just as the music starts again from the beginning of the song and can’t help but steal a glance inside out of nothing but a human curiosity.

He expects a studio full of wannabe starlets, arrogantly fighting to be the most noticeable in the class, or a group of old ladies feebly attempting to move what’s left of their ancient hips but instead it's almost empty.

The varnished wooden floor is streaked with strips of sunlight from the last remains of the setting summer sun, peaking in through the high windows and making the studio look bigger, more vacant, except for one sole body, Ian, alone. The dusk sunlight catches his hair and illuminates it, almost like a fire, blazing and alive. His eyes are closed, head tilted upwards and the beat of the song pulses through him as his head nods, counting himself in.

Mickey doesn't even realise that his feet have stopped walking, clearly of their own accord, as he stares into the studio and watches transfixed, curiosity winning out against the need to go unnoticed.

Ian's wearing a sleeveless grey vest paired with what look to Mickey like actual fucking tights or something. Whatever they are they mould themselves to every firm line, every bulge of his legs and ass and _everything_ _else_ and, despite Mickey's insistence that they're ridiculous, he can't help but admire what he sees, can't help feel the familiar pull of desire before his mind can even catch up.

Then, with the start of the song's lyrics, Ian starts to move. It's slow at first, as though testing the waters, warming himself up as arms and legs and hips and everything falls into sync with one another as his movements become larger, bolder.

The dance starts to quicken as the beat of the song picks up. Ian spins quickly on one leg before raising his arms and striking them down dramatically in time with the music. It should be absurd, Mickey thinks, this girly shit, but the way Ian holds himself with such certainty, the complete and utter authority he has over every muscle in his body, he can't help but find himself transfixed, impressed even.

Ian takes a few steps back in time with the song, feet and hips swinging rhythmically as his head nods with the beat, then, as though it were as easy as raising an arm, kicks his legs up at a complete 180 angle which has Mickey's jaw falling open at the sheer implications of what else he can do.

Mickey knows nothing about dance, but he has never seen anyone do what Ian is doing right now. Not in real life at least. Ian moves like gravity doesn't apply to him, leaping and diving and in full control of not only his body but also the space around him, because there's no way the fairly small dance studio can contain that. It’s like he isn’t real, like he’s some kind of displaced animation or a wandering spirit, unchained.

The song continues persistently on. Ian dances with a freedom unlike anything Mickey has ever seen and he finds that his eyes are like magnets, fixed on Ian's body and all the lean and powerful muscles flexing beneath the sheen of his sweat glazed skin. It's the sudden taste of blood that has Micky realising he'd been biting his lip for the last minute or so and he hesitates, knowing he should leave, knowing Ian could catch him any second, but he doesn't. He stays.

The song ends and the room is suddenly unbearably quiet despite the sound of traffic now pouring in from the open window in the absence of the music.

"You know this place has mirrors, right?" Ian says, sending a jolt of electricity through Mickeys heart. He’s staring directly at Mickey through the reflection of one of them, chest heaving only slightly to betray the fact that the dance wasn't as effortless as he'd made it look.

Mickey feels his cheeks colour, embarrassment floods at being caught out so brazenly and _shit,_ he sees now his own reflection gawking into the space but Ian simply laughs it off. It's not unkind, it's welcoming, like he's giving his consent for Mickey to look as much as he damn well pleases.

And fuck, after that display, maybe he does damn well please.

Neither of them say a word as Mickey struggles to find his own voice, unsure what exactly he wants to say, what he's _supposed_ to say. But then music is filling the room again as the song starts itself from the beginning. Ian hastily does a half jog to grab his phone and shut it off, disconnecting it from the speakers, but it's enough to ease the growing tension, allowing Mickey to laugh confidently.

"Whatever, Gallagher," he says cockily before turning and heading towards the locker room, refusing to acknowledge the knowing look Ian is giving him. It's one thing to be hot - and there's no way he can deny that now - it's another to _know_ you're hot and Mickey isn't about to give him the satisfaction of confirming it.

But then Ian is calling out for him to "wait up!" and, gym bag hanging from his shoulder, follows Mickey into the locker room. Mickey, much to his own surprise, doesn't protest.

The locker room is mostly empty, Mickey can hear the hiss of the showers but other than that, there seems to be no one else.

"So, what did you think? Of the dance?" Ian drops his bag onto the bench opposite Mickey and opens a locker, conveniently, just a few down from where Mickey had stashed his own shit.

His voice is friendly, earnest even, but there's an undeniable hint of flirtation that Mickey knows isn't unintentional. He wants to be praised. Worshipped even.

"Think your tights are a size too small, that's what I thought, Gene Kelly" Mickey says, attempting to be dismissive but failing with a nod towards Ian's crotch.

Ian follows his gaze for an instant before sending a smirk towards Mickey, shrugging in response.

"Maybe," Ian accepts, pulling his shirt off, and taking a step towards Mickey as he does so, smirking vainly, suggestively, and allowing Mickey all the time in the world to trail his eyes greedily down Ian's firm, athletic torso, past his abs, his belly button and the trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his sinfully tight pants. “You wanna help me get ‘em off?”

Mickey raises an eyebrow at his boldness. He’s heard worse come ons for sure but not in a public changing room that’s for sure.

They're close now. Neither says a word, the two just breathing in the confined space between the two rows of lockers, hidden from view from the rest of whoever still might be here. Mickey’s muscles still burn from his workout, his mind still tense from the garage, but Ian is standing before him with a smirk that sets his skin ablaze with something else entirely.

With barely a moment’s hesitation, Mickey grabs the back of his neck and pulls their lips together before any rational thoughts have the chance to take hold. 

Ian wastes no time in returning the kiss, hands grabbing hungrily at Mickey's waist and holding him securely in his grasp, taking control and pushing Mickey until his back is pressed firmly against the lockers, one hand pressed behind him for support. Mickey catches himself before he’s able to moan freely into the kiss, knowing that while they might be alone, someone could walk in at any moment. The thought makes his skin prickle with goosebumps, adrenaline coursing through his body.

Mickey touches him, god he _touches_ him, the firm, smooth perfectly muscular skin, taught and pale and still slightly sweaty beneath his fingertips.

"Shit," Mickey says against Ian's lips as Ian presses a knee firmly between his legs, knowing what Ian can feel there. There's no space to be self-conscious though as he allows his head to fall back with a metal clang against the locker behind him, pressing down against Ian’s thigh until there's a hand at his neck, guiding him back to the kiss. He can feel Ian smile against his lips, sucking and tasting while his hands travel back down towards Mickey's hips, thumbs pressing firmly into the jut of his hip bones and rubbing teasing circles that have Mickey's knees almost buckling.

Ian spins them effortlessly with two strong hands on Mickey’s shoulders and, before he can even register the change in position, they’re pushing him down onto the bench beneath him. Mickey's hands grasp the edge to brace himself as Ian sinks himself to his knees.

Hands are pulling at the waistband of his sweatpants, and Mickey lifts his ass slightly to help Ian push them down along with his underwear and suddenly his dick is out and hard in the open air of the locker room. There's a moment where Ian just...looks, lips slightly parted before his eyes dart up to meet Mickey's. Unable to remember words or how they work, Mickey nods his consent, eagerly, impatiently and then Ian's lips are taking him in, sliding down the length carefully, slowly and in complete contrast to the hurried, frantic kissing from before.

Mickey sees white at the sensation of Ian's tongue against the underside of his cock, head falling back and chest heaving at the effort to keep quiet. Ian takes all of him into his mouth effortlessly, reaching the base as his nose brushes against Mickey's pubes before pulling back again. God, the smooth, wet slide of his tongue, licking down his length has Mickey's toes curling in his shoes. He places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing encouragingly to keep him going while his thighs tense at the pleasure, resisting the urge to thrust upwards into Ian's fucking perfect mouth.

The effort to keep quiet becomes too much when Ian hums, the vibrations pulsing through every nerve and Mickey can't stop the moan that escapes his lips. He looks down at Ian then, sees the contented way his eyes close in concentration. He has one hand on Mickey's thigh, thumb pressing into the crease of Mickey's hip, while the other steadies himself on the bench.

"Hey," Mickey manages to voice, shaking gently on Ian's shoulder as he picks up the pace a little and Mickey can't help but buck his hips slightly, as much as he tries keep himself seated. "fuck, stop, I'm gonna..." he trails off when Ian places another hand on Mickey's opposite hip, holding him firmly in place and sinking all the way down onto Mickey's cock once more. Mickey whimpers, Ian's fingers digging firmly into his hips in a way he knows will leave bruises.

"Shit, Ian. I'm gonna come."

Ian pulls off then, giving Mickey a moment to breathe, to remember where they are as his eyes dart around the place to make sure they're still alone. Fuck he's so hard and he can feel Ian's breath hot against his skin he's still so close.

"Kinda the point, isn't it?" Ian says with an impish grin before sinking back down again and working him in earnest now. Mickey's eyes falls shut again and any willpower he had left vanishes to nothing. He places one hand on the back of Ian's head, fingers threading through his hair, while both of Ian's still remain firmly planted on his hips, controlling the slight thrust of Mickey's hips in time with his mouth. They find a rhythm together, the soft sound of their controlled breathing lingering in the air like a spell as Mickey nears the edge.

He can feel himself leaking and knows he's close. His fingers squeeze tighter against Ian's neck, back now arching forward as his whole body tenses, coiled tightly like a spring until he lets go. He comes with a muted shout, still aware of where they are and opens his eyes to see Ian swallowing him down with ease.

Mickey licks his lips, feeling their dryness, and catches his breath. Ian slips off, licking Mickey clean as he does so and uses the back of his hand to wipe his mouth and chin, slick with spit. They say nothing, Mickey just huffs as his heart pounds, slowly returning to a normal pace as he revels in the feeling.

"You okay?" Ian eventually asks, smirking that familiar, overly confident grin of his. Mickey would hate him for it but those lips just sucked his cock so he can't really complain.

Mickey nods his head, offers a weak "yeah," as he tugs his sweatpants back up to cover himself. Ian rises to his feet, before he can get too far though, Mickey reaches out and secures him in place with two hands at his hips. He looks up with a knowing grin which Ian returns, tongue in cheek until Mickey’s tugging down Ian's ungodly tight pants.

He pauses as he gets them down though, entirely unequipped for what he sees.

"The fuck is that?" he begs, unsure whether to laugh or not because the thing looks, quite frankly, ridiculous.

"It's a dance belt," Ian says matter-of-factly and without even a touch of embarrassment, "keeps everything in place."

"You look like a fucking Ken doll," Mickey jokes with an edge of teasing, surprising himself with how easy it is just laugh unselfconsciously, high on the moment. Ian peels the thing off gracefully and revealing all, Jesus Christ, all nine inches of his cock, bouncing free from its restraints. Fuck, Mickey isn't laughing now. He's practically drooling at the sight of it and ready to try his valiant best to take it all when a slam of a locker from a few rows down pulls him immediately back into the here and now.

"Shit," he mutters, standing up and tugging his pants back up. Ian looks over his shoulder, somewhat less panicked than Mickey but still concerned enough to cover himself. No one saw, at least Mickey doesn't think they did but still, someone's there, and more could come at any second.

"Guess I should go shower,” Ian says reluctantly after a few tense moment filled with nothing but the sounds of their breathing, laboured but subdued. “Rain check?" Ian is smiling sheepishly and a little lopsidedly as he suggests booking a fucking dick-sucking appointment or something. He readjusts his pants and that, whatever-it-was, dance belt thing as Mickey can do nothing but stare.

"Uh...sure," he agrees with slight confusion. Ian grabs the rest of his shit before turning to Mickey and offering a dorky as all fuck salute before turning and heading for the showers, smiling an awful lot for a guy who didn't, in actual fact, get his dick sucked.

Mickey shakes his head, staring after him in complete and utter bafflement until he disappears around the corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading so far!


	3. Chapter 3

Mandy's phone is ringing.

Mickey eyes it over his shoulder, watching it vibrate aggressively on the kitchen counter as he's heating his dinner in the microwave, feeling the frustration rise as it doesn't stop after a few rings. She's in her bedroom doing fuck knows what but, for whatever careless reason, left her phone in the kitchen. Mickey turns fully toward the noise, ready to yell out to his sister until he sees Ian's name lit up on the screen and his heart rate stills. 

With one quick irrational decision, he taps the screen to reject the call.

It's fucking idiotic and he knows it, but he can't get the thought out of his mind of Ian telling Mandy what happened and the inevitable shit he'll get for it. No doubt it's bound to happen, he can't help but picture them gossiping together like stupid fucking teenage girls, and he wonders why the ever-loving fuck he let it happen in the first place.

Except he knows exactly how he let it happen and he's not ashamed to admit that the whole thing was pretty spectacular as far getting his dick sucked goes.

There's also the matter of the fact that they didn't exactly leave things with a resounding full stop. Mickey is used to quick fucks, fucks with guys he doesn't know, guys he's unlikely to encounter on a daily basis and even on the occasions where things have been left unfinished, Mickey couldn't give less of a shit, especially if he wasn't the one left with blue balls at the end of it.

But Ian inevitably seems to plague him. While managing to avoid an actual confrontation, Mickey has seen him almost every night at the gym and Mandy still talks about him like he hung the goddamn moon despite having since given up on her attempts at fucking tap dancing or whatever she'd been learning in Ian's classes. Mickey isn’t surprised, the only thing she’s ever managed to stick at for any length of time was being a cold-hearted bitch.

Despite this, they’re apparently still best fucking friends and now Gallagher’s stupid name is flashing mockingly across Mandy's phone, confirming the assumption that the guy is simply going to just remain in Mickey’s life. Him and all nine inches of his dick that, disappointingly in fact, Mickey didn’t actually get to do anything with when he had the fleeting chance.

It's not the act he's ashamed of, he likes what he likes and nobody can say shit about that, but there's a reason he doesn't fool around with anyone who has connections to him, his family or anyone he knows. It's simple, his business is his business and he likes to keep it that way. He's out to the people who matter, and he's okay with that, but he doesn't fucking talk about it. As much as he loathes it, Mickey suspects that there will always be that residual influence ingrained in him from his father, dead and buried as he may be. It's the violent, paralysing fear of discovery, of people making assumptions about him based on meaningless shit. It's why he keeps his head down at work, why he keeps himself to himself, and why his sexuality is never an easy topic for him to acknowledge in any setting. At least verbally.

On top of that, he knows he'll catch a tonne of shit if Mandy finds out he screwed around with her friend and that is something he does not have the energy for.

The microwave pings and Mickey grabs his food, dumping it onto the counter and pulling up a stool to sit and eat when Mandy appears from her room.

"Have you seen my - " she starts before her eyes land on the phone beside Mickey on the counter. She quickly grabs it then swipes to unlock it and Mickey knows what's coming the second her face morphs into a confused frown. "Did you reject a call on my phone?" She rightfully accuses.

"Wouldn't stop fucking ringing," Mickey justifies with aloofness as he takes a bite of his still too hot food and finishes with a mouthful, "noise was pissing me the fuck off."

Mandy rolls her eyes. "Don't touch my shit, asshole," she mutters before dialling Ian back, her tone shifting substantially as Ian answers and she starts making plans for their evening and heads back to her room. Mickey continues to eat, wondering what the hell he thought he'd accomplish anyway. He's never gonna stop the two of them hanging out, no matter how much he'd rather rid his hands of the guy.

He's lounging on the sofa playing video games when Mandy emerges again, dressed in a skimpy black dress and heels.

"You just gonna sit on your ass all night again?"

Mickey looks up to find Mandy staring at him with a look that’s somewhere between annoyed and sympathetic, it's a look that has no business being directed towards Mickey and he all but squirms beneath it.

"What the fuck is it to you what I do?" he demands, eyes returning to the screen in front of him and smashing the controller until several zombies perish.

Mandy rummages through her tiny purse, checking for her phone, keys and other essentials before zipping it back up and double checking her makeup in the mirror by the door.

"Just saying, you never do shit," she pushes before adding cruelly, "do you even have any friends?"

"Fuck you."

"You could hang out with me and Ian tonight," she suggests and for a moment Mickey is fooled into thinking his sister just suggested they spend time together. Except she's still standing there after Mickey blinks several times and he realises she's actually not kidding, her expectant expression demanding a response.

" _That's_ a dumbass idea," he scoffs defensively, heart dropping as he jumps immediately to the conclusion that Ian has already fucking told her, the traitor. Why else would she suggest they all hang out like the best of goddamn friends? He eyes his sister, looking for any form of confirmation but she responds with an annoyed roll of her eyes before pulling open the door.

"Suit yourself," she says, dropping the idea at Mickey’s obvious disinterest in it. "Don't forget to take your dentures out before bed, old man."

Mickey flips her off as she leaves, slamming the door slightly as she goes and Mickey can only be grateful for the fact that Ian hadn't come up to meet her this time, saving him at least one awkward encounter. He goes back to his game, directing his attention to the swarm of undead attacking his virtual counterpart but his mind is elsewhere, something that becomes painfully obvious the third time he’s killed in the same spot. Mickey leans back into the sofa with a sigh, dropping the controller onto his lap.

Mandy may have a point.

He _doesn't_ do shit. And it's not because he doesn't want to. Mickey hates the idleness; he hates sitting around on his ass just watching his life pass by and wondering if this is really gonna be it until he eventually kicks the bucket one day.

Back in the days _before_ , before prison, before his dad died, before his brothers fucked off to various corners of the country on the run for whatever stupid shit they'd gotten themselves into, Mickey had lived for those hot summer nights, lighting up a bonfire, burning whatever old shit anyone in the neighbourhood had lying around, getting shit faced drunk just for the fucking hell of it.

Those were the days he had truly felt the freedom of youth, those were the days he was able to hide, just for a moment, from the unbearable realities of his life. He was a gay kid raised on the south side and sometimes, watching things burn was the purest form of release for him. He remembers watching the flames lick away at all that old shit they’d stack up, reducing it all to nothing but ashes and twisted metal. It was purifying, cleansing, like Mickey could almost feel the heat of it stripping away his own skin layer by layer, ridding him of the sins he felt deep inside himself.

Standing around that dilapidated bonfire, Mickey had felt that sense of community for half a moment, as corrupt and disloyal as it may have been. He was able to relish in that carefree feeling that would come with being too drunk to think about anything but laying on the cool evening ground, laughing up at the dumbass stars above and feeling all at once the sheer futility of the universe.

Nostalgia works its ways, concealing the memories behind a blurred wall of fondness that Mickey wonders if he ever had. At the time it had felt simple, but he knows now that fire will never cleanse, it will only destroy.

And destroy him it did, until he’d figured out a way to claw his way out of the ashes, burnt and broken but alive.

Back then, he never thought he'd have a future beyond four cell walls, but he’d proven every expectation wrong and gotten out, gotten away. The problem is, now that he finds he has a life to live, a life full of potential, Mickey feels almost as lost as he did when he was a teenager.

Of course he could take Mandy up on her offer but her idea of a good time certainly isn't what he considers to be one. He's not even sure what that looks like for him anymore, but it absolutely is not standing against the wall of a packed out club and paying $9 for a beer and watching assholes hit on his sister.

Several more hours pass of gaming, pestered with the inevitable thoughts of wasting his entire goddamn life away before Mickey deems it a reasonable enough hour to call it a night and head to bed. Sleep doesn't come easily when he does though.

It was just a simple comment, a mere observation on his sister's part that has Mickey staring at the ceiling for minutes or hours he isn't quite sure, feeling like he's simply watching his life play out in front of him. He might be at the steering wheel but the road has already been mapped, the story has already been written, just like a character in a goddamn video game.

It's been a while since he’d felt this hopeless, this inevitable, Mickey deems.

He can't say if sleep eventually captures him, but when he hears a crash coming from the bathroom, he's jolted awake immediately. He checks his phone, sees that in fact more than just a couple of minutes had passed since he'd last checked and that it's now after 3:00am. Mickey groans as he rubs the remaining sleep from his eyes, already feeling the weight of a sleepless night ahead of him.

He gets up reluctantly and heads to the bathroom just to double check Mandy hadn't cracked her fucking skull or something but finds it empty when he does and figures she must have managed to get herself to bed. Various shampoo bottles and other toiletries litter the floor from where she'd knocked them over and Mickey just brushes them aside with his foot, not exactly feeling the need to tidy the shit up now.

He pisses with bleary eyes – might as well while he’s up - and probably misses the bowl, a problem for whoever wakes up first in the morning. He then washes his hands as his eyes finally begin to adjust to the bright bathroom lights, blinking a couple times and resigning himself to the fact that his body and mind are now so unfortunately awake.

Stepping back out into the hallway and with every intention of forcing himself back to sleep, he frowns at seeing light coming from the kitchen and silently curses Mandy's drunk ass as he goes to switch it off.

He doesn't expect Ian fucking Gallagher to be hanging out in his kitchen in the early hours of the morning.

"What the fuck, man?" he says with a slight jolt of alarm, voice cracking slightly.

"Shit!" Ian turns from where he'd been standing at the sink, holding a glass of water in one hand and looking like he'd been caught with his other hand in the cookie jar. "Mickey. Shit. We woke you. I'm sorry," he stumbles. In the absence of any kind of explanation from Ian himself, Mickey's sleep deprived mind races as he scrambles to determine why Ian is here. He remembers the crash he'd heard in the bathroom and feels momentarily sick, as a fleeting image of Ian and his sister fucking in the bathroom intrudes upon his thoughts, as absurd as the idea is.

The thought barely has a chance to take hold, however, before Ian is explaining himself hurriedly. "Mandy got pretty wasted," he says almost apologetically as if it's his fucking fault Mickey's sister is a goddamn lightweight, "I wanted to make sure she got home okay. She threw up a couple times and - I was just bringing her some water." Ian feebly holds up the glass to iterate his point.

"Fuck," Mickey says for want of anything better to say, rubbing a hand across his weary face as something that feels like relief washes over him.

Ian smiles briefly, allowing a lingering awkwardness to develop before apparently remembering his entire purpose for being in Mickey's apartment at 3:00am

"So, I guess I'll...take this to her."

"You don't need to narrate your every fucking move, man" Mickey chides as Ian finally sidesteps him to head to Mandy's bedroom. Mickey watches down the hall as he taps gently on her door before letting himself in.

With a sigh, he grabs the coffee pot and starts filling it. He’s fucking awake now.

Ian emerges five minutes later. He grabs his jacket from where it had been draped over one of the stalls at the counter and for a second looks like he's about to leave with just a faint smile aimed in Mickey's direction.

"She okay?" Mickey forces himself to ask simply because he feels like he’s supposed to, pouring himself a cup of coffee as he does so. Ian pauses on his way to the door, turning toward Mickey.

"Yeah," he confirms with affection, standing hesitantly between the kitchen and the door, "out like a light."

"She'll be a bitch in the morning."

Ian laughs, that same one Mickey had seen before only quieter now, more reserved as a result of the late - or, fuck, early - hour. Mickey can't help but stare at the way the guy seems to just light up with even the slightest inspiration of gladness, can't help but stare at those lips, mind helpfully reminding him of them in another context as he swallows and wills himself to not think about it.

Mickey isn’t exactly accustomed to conversing with the guys after fooling around with them but it's looking more and more like Ian is going to be the exception to that rule.

He watches cautiously as Ian glances at his phone, frowns then looks somewhat alarmed as his gaze shoots towards the clock on the wall and back a couple times.

"You know your clock's out by an hour?" he says, voice defeated, "fuck, I didn't realise it was so late." He looks somewhat helpless at the fact, rubbing his eyes as the tiredness hits him all of a sudden.

"You live far?"

"Not really," Ian says with a resigned sigh, endearingly optimistic despite the way his eyelids are looking all droopy, like it's all he can do to keep them open. "Thirty minute walk, tops, but I should really get going so -" Mickey rolls his eyes because that's fucking _far_ as far as he's concerned.

"You can crash on the couch if you need," he offers with a shrug, feeling greatly uncomfortable about it but he guesses it's the least he can offer him for taking the trouble to make sure Mandy got home okay. Ian smiles gratefully, his relief evident in the way his shoulders sag, as though relieving a heavy burden.

"You sure?"

"Would I have fucking offered if I wasn't?" Mickey bites back harshly, not one for having to say anything twice.

"Thanks." And Ian is so goddamn earnest Mickey almost feels bad for snapping but then an awkward silence falls, illustrated all the more by the persistent clock ticking away and Mickey wonders why he didn’t just let the guy walk the fuck home like he intended. Ian takes a seat at the counter, looking like he wants to say something but Mickey doesn’t give him room to finish the thought, instead responding with the first thought he comes up with.

"You want some coffee?" he asks, gesturing with his own cup.

Ian smiles for a moment, seems to consider before shaking his head.

"I shouldn't." It's the same thing he'd said when Mickey had offered him a beer the first time they'd met only this time it's twice as frustrating because what kind of insufferable do-gooder doesn't drink coffee?

"What are you, a fucking Mormon or something?" And there it is again, that laugh that fills Mickey's chest with such lightness he can hardly stand it, like his lungs have been replaced with a pair of balloons rapidly inflating. He sips at his coffee, hoping to quell the rising panic at the fact.

"Got anything non-caffeinated and non-alcoholic?" he suggests on a whim, resting his elbows on the counter and placing his chin atop a closed fist.

"I got fucking water."

"I'll take some of your finest."

Mickey rolls his eyes because God, he's probably one of those _My Body is a Temple_ types. But then he supposes that aint necessarily a bad thing because Ian's body has a lot going for it, he'll admit.

Opening the refrigerator, Mickey grabs the carton of orange juice instead, pouring a glass and placing it unceremoniously in front of Ian.

"This satisfy you, Goldilocks?"

"Perfect."

Ian takes a sip and Mickey doesn't really know what to do. He should go back to his room, let Ian actually sleep since it's the whole purpose of letting him crash here, but he can't seem to bring himself to leave the room.

"So," Ian eventually says, placing his now half empty class down on the counter and folding his arms. His eyes meet Mickey's and he can tell - call it a gut instinct or a fucking third eye or whatever - that Ian is about to say something fucking stupid. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

Bingo.

Mickey feels his stomach tighten because no he absolutely does not want to talk about the fact that Ian had recently swallowed his dick. _Why_ would anyone?

"Talk about what," he says, playing dumb as he scratches an itch on the side of his cheek and looks the other way. It was nothing it means nothing and he does not want to discuss it.

"The other day? At the gym? When we - "

"The fuck we gotta talk about it for?" Mickey interrupts, unable to bear the thought of Ian finishing that sentence. "Look man, I don't know what to tell ya. It was a hookup and I don't make a habit of screwing with a guy more than once so..." he trails off, allowing Ian to fill in the blanks.

As uncomfortable as the whole thing makes him, maybe it would be best to set the record straight now. Finally get over the nagging feeling of owing this guy something that has settled in Mickey's stomach since he'd first met him. Bite the bullet and let Ian know where he stands so he can move the fuck on without feeling suffocated whenever he so much as sees his name on someone else's phone.

"Right," Ian says, backtracking a little, eyes searching Mickey for what he doesn't know. "I guess I just thought...well we sorta left things unfinished?"

"What, you want me to suck your dick, so we're even, 'zat what you're saying?" Ian's gaze lingers on Mickeys for just a split moment longer before he laughs, realising now the ridiculous implications of his reasonings as he drops his head bashfully.

"I'm being an asshole," he concludes, looking up at Mickey again through golden eyelashes, "I'm sorry. No, you don't owe me anything, Mickey."

"Damn straight."

"I do have one question though." Mickey raises his eyebrows, silently imploring Ian to continue as much as he’d rather he didn’t. "Does Mandy know?" And in an instant, all of Mickey's insecurities from earlier that night resurface.

"Why the _fuck_ would I tell Mandy?"

Ian’s eyes widen.

"No, not about - I mean does she know that you're gay?" Mickey blinks a handful of times, unable to completely tamper the primal urge within him that takes offense to the assumption before he reminds himself that this guy has literally sucked his dick. He takes comfort in the fact that Ian clearly hasn't mentioned their encounter to his sister but still, he doesn't know why this is a relevant conversation to have at 3 in the fucking morning. "I just - " Ian continues, "I don't wanna accidentally say something, you know? I mean, if she doesn't know."

"Jesus, stop. Yes. She knows. But you're not gonna mention any of - this - to her, alright?" he says, gesturing rapidly between the two of them with one finger.

"Sure," Ian acquiesces and Mickey can't figure out the expression on his face. But, whatever.

He finishes the last mouthful of coffee before heading to his room, grabbing a spare pillow from his bed and tossing it onto the couch for Ian, stopping short the moment he sees that Ian has taken his fucking shirt off in the few short moments Mickey had left the room. It’s nothing he hadn’t laid eyes on in the locker room before, but right not he can’t seem control the way his eyes linger while his memory supplies the sensation of what it had felt like to have his hands all over that smooth, freckled skin.

"Thanks," Ian says, drawing Mickey's attention back to focus, barely able to hide the way his eyes trail Ian's torso greedily.

"Don't really have any spare sheets or shit," he mumbles, halfway apologetically as soon as he finds his voice again.

"It's fine. Thanks Mickey," he says with a smile brighter than anyone has any right to have at this time in the morning.

"And you, uh, know where the bathroom is, I guess," Mickey says, the effort to not stare causing him to ramble like an imbecile but for fuck's sake, it's late and Mickey hasn’t slept and right now he can’t seem to think with his actual brain.

Ian nods, with a fond " _mm hmm,"_ folding his shirt and placing it on the back of the sofa before sitting down and looking up at Mickey, looking so expectant and patient and _calm_ that Mickey just about loses his mind.

"What?" he demands somewhat harshly, the whole situation aggravating him to no end in a way he can't even make sense of because why should he be this worked up?

"Nothing?" Ian looks somewhat genuine in his confusion, but Mickey isn't buying it.

"You're fucking sitting there looking at me like - " He trails off, realising he isn't sure how exactly to finish his accusation, but knowing that there's something there. Something electric, conductive and combustible.

"Like what?" And Ian is certainly amused by now.

Mickey had resolutely said that what happened was a one time thing. He had made that crystal clear because he has rules and systems that he stands by when it comes to the people he fucks for the sole purpose of not complicating shit.

But Mandy's out of it, she'll be dead to the world until noon at least, and Mickey realises right about now that he has a very willing guy in his living room packing at least nine inches. He's turning it down for what, exactly?

If Ian hadn't caught him staring before, he's definitely aware of it now, with eyebrows raised and hands clasped innocently between his knees. Mickey swallows his arbitrary values.

He always did like to play with fire.

He's on his knees in front of Ian in an instant, tugging at the belt buckle but before he can wrench it free, Ian's hands are on his shoulders.

"Mickey. Mickey, you don't have to do this, alright?" he assures with just a hint of amusement in his tone. "I told you, you don't owe me shit."

"Fuck off," he says, rolling his eyes, knowing Ian has been wanting exactly this all week, "ain't doing this for your benefit," he adds, just to set the record straight. He's doing this so he can stop fucking thinking about it and get the fuck on with his life.

"Such a charmer," Ian says with a laugh but doesn't object this time as Mickey finally unbuckles his belt and pulls it free from the beltloops on Ian's jeans. Ian assists him in pulling his pants down and Mickey finally locks eyes on his cock, only half hard by now but exactly as he'd reluctantly remembered it.

Mickey takes as much as he can.

But fuck, Ian is _big_.

"Go slow," Ian urges with a squeeze to his shoulder and he's not sure if it's for Mickey's benefit or if he wants to make this last. Either way, Mickey slows down his pace, gets a rhythm going and uses a spit slicked hand to make up what he can't take with his mouth. He takes his time, dragging his tongue down Ian's length as far as he can and tasting the salty sweetness of his skin firm beneath his lips but Ian's sheer size has his jaw aching from the effort of it.

He thinks about it inside him, filling him up, hitting him just right and it's that thought alone that has him rapidly hardening himself as he sinks down over and over, elusive fantasies playing out in his mind.

Everything passes in a blur. Ian fists a hand into Mickey's hair causing pinpricks of pain to blossom on his scalp as Mickey attempts to swallow as much of Ian as he possibly can. They're both moaning, soft and breathy and aware of Mandy sleeping just a wall away. It's too much and it feels like a dream; Mickey wonders if he ever woke at all.

The slow rhythm builds and builds until Ian's hips begin to lose control and Mickey realises, with a sinking feeling of disappointment, that this isn’t going to last long enough to take it further if they keep on.

He pulls off, steadying Ian firmly with two hands on his hips before looking up into his eyes, lust filled and heavy. He’s halfway to suggesting he go grab some lube, turn this up a notch but the thoughts fade before they make it past is lips.

Instead, Mickey feels the unfamiliar urge of wanting to kiss him.

It's something he can't explain. Mickey has never been into kissing. Of course he’d kissed Ian before, it’s a precursor, it sets the moods, solidifies expectations and in the worst cases means he doesn't have to make awkward eye contact, but it's rarely something he finds himself particularly eager for. Some guys love it, and he goes along with it because it's what most people expect at the very least.

But looking up at Ian now, with his lips slightly parted, short staccato breaths escaping in time with his heaving chest, Mickey feels the urge stronger than ever.

As though reading his mind, Ian pulls at Mickey's arm and Mickey goes willingly, allowing Ian to tug him onto his lap. His mouth is on his in an instant and for a while that's all they do, Ian's hand stroking them both lazily. Usually Mickey would quickly grow impatient but right now, wrapped up in the comfort of existing within such a peculiar hour of the morning, one that he rarely sees and thus oftentimes doesn't exist, he lets Ian kiss him.

* * *

Mickey has the next day off, which is probably for the best because it was after 5 by the time he had peeled himself away from Ian, both of them sticky and sated.

He wakes shortly after 9:00am and knows instantly that he won't get back to sleep so decides he may as well get up.

He's not sure how to feel about the fact that the sofa is empty. Relieved would be an obvious choice, no need for any awkward morning-after conversations and small talk after all. But there's something about the sight, or lack thereof, that makes Mickey feel off in a way that makes absolutely no sense. The so-called _unfinished business_ between them had most certainly and undeniable been fulfilled last night. They'd had no interruptions, nothing to sour the experience of having Ian take both of them within one hand and slowly, tantalisingly bringing them both to completion. The itch had been scratched and that should be it.

Now, in the rational and present light of the morning sun, Mickey gazes at the empty sofa. If it weren't for the faded blue pillow resting there, he'd wonder if he'd imagined the whole thing.

Determined to let the matter be, he heads to the kitchen, head pounding and demanding caffeine as though it were fucking cocaine. Resting beside the sink, he sees the mug and glass that they'd used last night, freshly washed a left to dry. beside them is a note scribbled on an old screwed up receipt that had been flattened somewhat straight to lay on the counter.

_Thanks for letting me crash - Ian_

Mickey studies it for half a moment before screwing it up and tossing it in the trash.

Polite motherfucker.

He makes his coffee and feels his headache alleviate almost as soon as he takes the first sip. He's always been useless on no sleep and Mickey reluctantly accepts that the likelihood of him doing anything productive today is slim to none.

He heads for the sofa and collapses onto it, pulling the pillow close and burying his face in it.

It smells like Ian.

It takes Mickey a few moments to realise but it does. The smell of his own laundry detergent is faint underneath but fuck. It smells like Ian and he has no idea what opinion he's supposed to have of that fact.

But he's too tired to do so much as lift his head so he stays there, face buried and engulfed in the scent, eyes feeling heavy and mind fogging pleasantly.

He doesn't even realise he'd fallen asleep until Mandy is prodding his thigh with her foot.

"Move over, dickface," she mumbles, dropping herself ungraciously on the sofa when Mickey moves sluggishly. She's wrapped herself up in an old tattered blanket and is downing a handful of aspirin before gulping down an entire glass of water.

"You look like shit," he tells her, rubbing the heel of his palm to his heavily sleep deprived eyes and earning himself a fierce glare that would be threatening if she didn't look like quite as green as she does.

"Least I actually had some fun last night," she bites back and Mickey can't suppress the grin that spreads across his face, thankful that Mandy is far too hungover to pay him any attention.

* * *

Mickey isn't sure if he'll ever get all of the rust out from underneath his fingernails. He's washed his hands at least three times since finishing up but still finds himself picking fragments out from them. He knows he should've just worn gloves but, in his eagerness to just get on with the job, he'd forgone them completely.

The Chevy is looking, quite frankly, like a piece of shit.

But that's the beauty of it. They've almost finished filing away the corrupted steel, they've almost reached that base stage at which the car is nothing more than it's bare essentials, even less than that in some aspects, and once they hit that point, the rebuild begins. Once they strip it back as far as they possibly can, they can start breathing some life back into the rotted, neglected relic.

It's a couple hours after his shift and he's sat at a booth at Dandy's with Benny, Jon and Dario. The tension that had arisen the previous week has been dropped, at least, Jon refuses to acknowledge he was out of line and Mickey can't be fucked drawing attention to it. Either way, no one is fucking talking about it and Mickey is content to just forget about the whole thing. He can be civil, doesn't mean he has to like the guy.

He's on his third beer, feeling the beginnings of the alcohol settle within his bloodstream enough to lighten his often perpetually sour attitude.

He doesn't plan on getting drunk, it's the middle of the week after all, but when Dario had suggested they grab a beer after work, he'd been more than willing to hang out, act like a fucking normal person for a change instead brooding at home.

And if he's honest, Mickey feels pretty good.

The Chevy is kicking everyone's ass, but they've finally hit a point where it feels like the work is ready to start paying off. He's also feeling stronger, more energized after hitting the gym as often as he can. He's able to laugh with his work colleagues, able to tamper his general annoyance of other people despite being in the presence of a guy he particularly can't stand.

He feels in control. Like everything is in the right place for once in his life and he could take the reins at any moment and do something with it. The hopelessness from the other night buried for now amongst minor victories that Mickey chooses to focus on.

But when the conversation turns to sex, Mickey grows inevitably uncomfortable, feeling the hard-earned control over his life slipping somewhat as he's reminded of the act he perpetually plays. The role of a fucking lifetime.

And suddenly he’s back to square one.

It starts innocent enough, Benny never says so much as a sarcastic comment when it comes to Sadie, he treats the woman like a goddamn Queen, but Jon is pretty much the polar opposite and Dario lies somewhere in the middle of that spectrum. Mickey just nods and plays along, ignores the knowing looks from Benny because what the fuck does he know?

In reality he feels like a fucking alien. Pretending. Putting on a face that isn't his and all it does is bring back the all too familiar feeling of laughing at his dad's awful humour in a useless attempt to not be in his line of sight the next time he would turn.

Mickey finishes his beer but declines a fourth as Dario makes his way to the bar, choosing instead to call it an early night before he get’s himself buried too deep in his own thoughts again.

He’s craving _something_ and he has no idea what as he fumbles with his lighter, hoping the buzz of nicotine will alleviate it.

The air is still warm as Mickey walks home, cigarette in hand. Every day lately seems to grow hotter than the last, more stifling, claustrophobic almost. Mickey's never hated the Chicago heat. Sure beats the frigid winters at least where you can feel the chill right down to your very bones no matter how many layers you wear. But more than a mere distaste for the cold, Mickey just _likes_ the feeling of the sun on his shoulders, skin prickling from the heat. He'd spent too long trapped. Stuck in his shitty neighbourhood, confined under Terry's roof, locked up in prison.

For him, summer feels like freedom. And he’s determined to cling to that feeling as often as he’s able.

Pushing the apartment door open, Mickey stops in his tracks upon finding Ian propped up on the sofa. He's unsure if he'll ever get used to simply seeing the guy in normal contexts, without his mind drifting inevitably to unmentionable secret encounters, situations that he does _not_ need to be thinking about. Not when Mandy is sitting right beside him as they overreact to some kind of so-bad-its-good reality TV show. There's a bowl of popcorn between the two of them, a couple cans of soda littered across the coffee table, it's so goddamn normal and suddenly Mickey finds he now has a different role to play all together. Mandy barely acknowledges his arrival which is nothing new, but he's somewhat thrown by the dismissive nod he receives from Ian, whose eyes never leave the TV screen.

"Fucking girls' night or something?" he mutters, closing the door behind him and toeing off his shoes.

"You're so fucking original," Mandy says sarcastically with a glare but Mickey keeps his eyes on Ian instead. The dude's acting like he doesn't exist and it's...fucking weird.

Mickey heads directly to the kitchen, grabbing a tube of pringles in lieu of actually making himself some dinner and chooses to hang out in his room instead, like some kind of reclusive teenager.

He considers playing some music, just to be an asshole since their apartment is tiny and he can hear the hysterical voices from the TV clear as day all the way from the living room but, collapsing onto his bed and finally feeling safe in the comfort of concealment amidst the four walls of his bedroom, Mickey just doesn't have the energy.

Gallagher's obviously here to spend time with Mandy, he's not exactly gonna ditch her to make small talk with Mickey like he's often so inclined to do. Still, Mickey can't help but keep glancing towards his door as though the fucker is just gonna walk right in or something and it's so utterly ridiculous that he refuses to acknowledge what exactly he's hoping for here, where his wretched, half-fogged thoughts linger.

It's the mere knowledge that he's out there that just makes him feel unsettled and this is exactly why Mickey never hooks up with people he knows. Sex for him is about getting off, getting it out of his system and if the guy he does it with ends up just always around, in his space, in his fucking home, then when does that feeling of _expectation_ ever go away?

* * *

By the time Mickey next makes it to the gym, it's been a full four days since he last visited. He didn't mean to take such an extended break, intending to make the most of what's left of his free month, but with working late nights and social obligations, he'd let himself skip out on a few more sessions than he'd intended.

His body certainly did need the rest though and when he comes back to the machines, he's surprised to really feel the difference that three weeks has made. Though stiff at first, all it takes is a brief warmup and Mickey is almost pushing 200lbs on the chest press, so close to beating his personal best.

And he's fucking proud of himself.

It's not lost on him that he has a little less than a week left before he has to hit the curb or pay a membership fee though, and on more than one occasion he's considered his options. He could find another gym, somewhere that's cheaper and doesn't drive up it's prices simply to appeal to kale drinking freaks, but this place is so perfectly located between the shop and his apartment that Mickey wonders if he'll train with the same ferocity if he has to go out of his way to get there. 

He lets the pros and cons weigh themselves as he heads to change, feeling the comforting satisfaction of a completed workout.

And Ian is there.

Mickey stares for a moment, like a deer in headlights. He's standing in front of the same locker he almost always uses, so it shouldn't be a surprise to see him - and it isn't - but Mickey is still getting used to the whole navigating existing within the same space as a guy you've shared orgasms with thing.

"Hey," he says in as normal a tone as possible because his locker his opposite and it would probably be weirder if he didn't say anything. He dumps his bag and peels off his unpleasantly sweaty vest top.

Ian glances over his shoulder, offers a simple, polite, yet strikingly rhetorical "how's it going?" in response before zipping up his bag and heading out with nothing but a forced smile aimed in Mickey's general direction.

What the fuck?

Mickey watches him go, one eyebrow raised. There's no way he's imagining it, the guy is being downright _cold_. But with Ian gone and no explanation for his mood apparent, Mickey can do nothing but shrug it off and head for the showers.

When the spray hits his shoulders Mickey feels his tense shoulders relax instantly. This is fucking fine, he thinks. If anything it's a best case scenario. All this time he'd been working himself up over the fact that Ian is now apparently someone who is _in his life_ by default of him being close to his sister. He supposes if they keep one another at arm’s length then things don't have to be fucking weird.

He just doesn't like the feeling of being ignored. Especially not when for once in his life, Mickey had resigned himself to being somewhat less of an asshole.

And it doesn't bother him - because why the fuck should it - but what irritates him is the fact that he has no idea what caused the complete U turn in Ian's attitude. If they'd both been on the same page from the beginning then fine, but last week the guy was at his heels like a goddamn puppy trying to get his attention and now Mickey might as well not exist.

What the fuck ever.

Mickey is fine with it.

Even when it keeps happening and there's no avoiding the fact that Ian is fucking pissed at something.

It happens again the next day. Mickey is passing the dance studio just as Ian is closing the door behind him.

"What's up?" he says, matching his pace with Ian's. It's more of an experiment than anything, to tease away at something so clearly splintered and confirm that the guy is avoiding him rather than any pitifully sentimental desire to actually catch up with him.

Ian smiles politely. It's the kind of smile you'd offer the kid bagging your shit at the grocery store and nothing more. Mickey's about to ask him what his fucking problem is when Ian stops abruptly.

"Shoot, I forgot my - " he trails off, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the dance studio, with no clear purpose in mind. "I'll catch you later,” he says with little commitment as he turns and hurries quickly away.

Mickey rolls his eyes and heads to change. That settles that then. Dude's just as much of an asshole as Mickey is and wants nothing more to do with him now that they're apparently even. Whatever.

Mickey just doesn't know why it’s starting to bother him so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a quick note on the posting schedule, I had originally intended to post weekly, however shortly after the first chapter was posted, I was taken off furlough and have been working full time. I'm writing when I can but updates are probably going to continue being every week and a half/2 weeks for the time being!
> 
> And if you're so inclined, feel free to give me a follow on tumblr at IckeyandMian :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this update took a little longer than planned and I do apologise! Life keeps getting in the way but I'm hopefully going to have plenty of solid writing time this week to make up for it!

Mickey has never really had friends. Not in the traditional sense at least. Sure he had his brothers growing up, they always had his back and he knows it. And there had been a number of kids around the neighbourhood and at school who had attached themselves to him, hoping in some way to gain some kind of protection from him simply by being in his near vicinity.

They never seemed to realise that a Milkovich wouldn’t hesitate to beat the shit of them if they’d merely looked at one of them wrong one day, no matter what favours they’d gained in the past.

But Mickey has never had friends, people to hang around with simply because they enjoyed one another’s company or what the fuck ever. The entire thing had always sounded pointless anyway. He hung around people who were useful, people who could help him earn a buck here or there or get their knuckles bloody when things went sideways.

Despite this, he’s never considered himself to be lonely. There had never been an alternative for him to compare it to anyway. In fact, he’d even go so far as to say he’d liked things the way they had been. He’d been the leader, the kid that everyone else looked up to for answers and direction, Terry Milkovich’s little protégé, and no one dared cross him for fear of several broken bones and a name forever dirtied.

For a long time, Mickey had thought that that was what friendship was supposed to look like.

He’d always followed in his dad’s footsteps, not quite old enough to realise why he was in and out of prison all the time. He’d seen the way his dad treated the guys who would often hang around Mickey’s house, the cold, fearless dictator amongst his subjects. They were his dad’s _friends_ for lack of a better word when Mickey was young.

Mickey imitated his father in every way he could. He admired him and, like the predictable, broken reflection he’d turned himself into, Mickey started to get into trouble.

His first stint in juvie, Mickey realised he didn’t need friends anyway. What he had, what his dad taught him was far more valuable in a place like that anyway.

It was fear.

Fear allowed him to survive, fear kept everyone else in check, kept them at a safe distance save for those brave enough to attempt to get themselves on Mickey’s good side. And it was easy to determine who was valuable and who wasn’t. Anyone brave enough to try it, anyone who dared to push past Mickey’s iron spiked attitude and his infamous Milkovich reputation was clearly worth something, and Mickey developed a habit of keeping those people around.

And so he’d grown used to the benefits of his name, to being Terry Milkovich’s son.

He never cared who he pissed off, never bothered with manners or social courtesies, so long as he never pissed off the leering patriarch of the whole operation, he knew he would make it.

The realisation that he wasn’t like other boys was the first moment in his life that Mickey genuinely feared for his life.

These were the urges within him that were so unnatural, buried deep and almost forgotten until one comment, one thought, one sight would resurface them and Mickey would need to start all over again in trying to be the only person he could possibly be, the only role he could play that would keep him alive.

And it worked. He stayed alive stubbornly so, until his dad finally kicked the bucket and Mickey had eventually found that he’d lost track of just how much of him he’d left buried.

He’d become acquainted with Benny not long after his latest stint in prison and somewhat reluctantly at that. Still, the guy had somehow managed to urge his way through into Mickey’s life. He didn’t give a shit about Mickey’s attitude, had no idea what a Milkovich even was, having not grown up around the South Side of Chicago and Mickey had eventually let him succeed.

For the first time he’d found himself a friend. One with no conditions or strings attached, no underlying threats to keep the status quo in place. Just a guy at work who had his back for no other reason other than they know how to laugh together and don’t entirely hate one another.

He’ll be honest, it had been strange at first to a guy like Mickey who’s relationships lasted for as long as they were useful to him, platonic and otherwise, but here, at Reynolds’ crummy dilapidated garage, he’d allowed himself to grow used to the fact.

Shortly after they’d first met, Mickey had been determined to keep him at arms-length, no intention of offering the bare minimum in terms of social interactions because he’d figured he’d end up locked up again soon one way or another. He’d seen no point in gaining favour, making something out of what he’d figured would only be a temporary deal, still in the mindset that no form of contentedness he would ever have could last.

But then a few weeks had passed. Then it was a few months, and Mickey slowly started to come to realisation that his Dad really was gone, dead and buried and rotting in the earth where he belonged.

He’d realised for the first time in his life that he had the freedom to finally put his hands on the steering wheel.

Only he had no idea where he wanted to go.

* * *

Mickey might not be the most observant person on the planet, but he knows when someone is pissed at him.

And Ian is definitely pissed.

He’s hardly spoken to the guy all week, not properly since he left Mickey’s apartment in the early hours of the morning with nothing but a cheesy note left by the sink.

And Mickey doesn’t _care._ It’s not like he’s pining after the asshole or anything, all they’d done was get each other off, it’s not like they’d even fucked.

He’s just wondering how the hell they went from getting each other off, to Ian practically turning on his heel whenever Mickey sees him at LiveBrite.

There’s also a part of him, Mickey supposes, that _had_ secretly hoped they may at some point get to the _fucking_ stage, the guy has a nine inch cock and Mickey is very much aware of that fact. And it’s ridiculous, Mickey doesn’t do this shit, rarely remembers a guys name once his dick is soft again, so he really has no idea what he’s doing as he waits outside the dance studio, arms crossed over his chest as he waits for the class inside to finish, the dulled beat of music pounding through the wall behind him.

It’s the last day of his membership, and it kind of feels like his last chance to figure out what the fuck Gallagher’s problem is.

He doesn’t have a plan really. He has no words rehearsed or even any idea how he _wants_ this to go, but he figures if he corners him, he can at least get some goddamn answers out of him one way or another because the dude has been straight up fucking hostile and Mickey isn’t one to take shit like that, friend of Mandy’s or otherwise.

Fingers tapping impatiently against his arm, Mickey reminds himself that he isn’t here to start shit. He reminds himself that he isn’t the person he once was, that he’s gotten to where he is by actually on occasion using his words and that’s what he plans to do.

Besides, he doesn’t want to actually hurt Gallagher anyway. Maybe he would’ve if he was still seventeen, but he’s grown up at least a little since then.

Mickey just wants to know where he fucking stands because he doesn’t need someone coming into his home and acting spiteful and the sooner they can come to some kind of understanding, the better, something that would be a lot easier if Gallagher wasn’t giving him the fucking silent treatment like a goddamn child. It’s nothing short of juvenile and Mickey can’t stand it.

He’d thought Ian had been tougher than that, thought he was the kind of guy to give as much as he can take but Mickey supposes he was wrong.

Eventually the music is cut and Mickey can make out Ian’s voice, probably spouting some kind of inspirational bullshit to his class. The disorganised sound of out of sync feet scrambling to collect their belongings tells Mickey that it’s almost time and he pushes himself off from the wall. He waits patiently as the door is pushed open and a burst of girls along with a handful of boys emerge, chatting excitedly about whatever lame ass show their putting on that Mickey gives literally zero shits about.

None of them pay Mickey an ounce of attention as he slides past them into the studio.

Ian doesn’t notice him at first. He’s collecting up a handful of empty water bottles from the floor in the corner of the room, discarded by some of his piece of shit students no doubt.

Mickey closes the door behind him, the sound forcing Ian’s attention his way and Mickey finds that familiar feeling of satisfaction when he jolts at the sight of him.

“Jesus,” Ian says with alarm upon seeing Mickey, obviously expecting anyone but him and only causing Mickey’s frustration to rise. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Mickey rolls his eyes.

“It’s like a fucking hall of mirrors in here and you’re saying you didn’t see me?” Mickey scoffs. It’s a misguided attempt at humour more than anything but Mickey hears how it comes out. There’s no denying the unkind sarcasm dripping from his words, only causing the tension in the room to grow and for Mickey to question why he’s even bothering with this at all.

“What is it?” Ian asks with a sigh, ignoring Mickey’s comment and striding towards the recycling bin to toss the water bottles. Mickey watches, is reminded of just how long and lean Ian’s legs are, his joggers hugging the muscles and their every contour.

But now isn’t the time for that, and ever the expert in the art of suppressing his urges, Mickey snaps his eyes back up to meet Gallagher’s.

“Came to ask what the fuck is up with you,” he asks as diplomatically as he can manage. It’s a mere force of habit that the curse words always find their way into his everyday speech and probably not helping matters but Mickey can’t take it back now and Ian doesn’t seem particularly offended by it. He walks further into the studio, shoes squeaking against the polished floor.

Ian narrows his eyes, runs a hand through his hair which is damp and sticking up at odd angles.

“What are you talking about?” he says, with an uncertain shake of his head.

Mickey wonders if his little dance lessons came with acting classes too because the guy does seem genuinely confused, only serving to piss Mickey off further at the sheer audacity.

“I fucking piss you off or something, Gallagher?” Mickey persists, deciding to get straight to the point. He studies Ian’s face, looking for any sign to indicate the guy has a problem but faces only his confusion.

“No?”

“Then what the fuck’s your problem?” Mickey demands, finally reaching the point of losing his temper even though he swore he wouldn’t.

“I don’t have a problem,” Ian insists as sternly as he can manage, holding his ground, eyes never leaving Mickey’s.

“Fucking bullshit,” Mickey bites back, “you been acting like I’m fucking contagious all week.”

“I thought that was what you wanted?”

Where Mickeys voice is angry and indignant, Ian’s is steady and calm, annoyingly patient as though Mickey were a child throwing a tantrum and Ian the sensible parent talking him down. It makes his blood boil. He turns on his feet, paces the room as he calms his breathing.

“Mickey,” Ian continues, “I was just putting the ball in your court.”

“What are you talking about?” Mickey says, scrunching his face up in confusion as he turns back towards Gallagher, “don’t give me that fucking metaphor shit, alright, just say what you wanna say.”

Ian rolls his eyes with something that almost looks like amusement.

“You wanted to pretend nothing happened so that’s what I’m doing, alright? You made it more than clear where you stand. I get it. We don’t have to go there again.”

“So that’s how we’re gonna do this, huh?” he growls. He doesn’t even know what’s driving him anymore, all he knows is that he hates the way his shackles are rising, hates how Gallagher is just deciding he gets to call the shots and determine what Mickey wants, so calm and diplomatic as though Mickey is the irrational one.

“I don’t know what you want here, Mickey!” Ian exclaims, exacerbated.

“Don’t want nothing from you, Gallagher.”

Ian raises an eyebrow, a hint of a disbelieving smirk on his face.

“Okay, so then what’s the problem here exactly?” Mickey blinks, realising he’d been lead into a corner so easily and called out for his own half thought-out bullshit.

Maybe Gallagher isn’t as much of a pushover as he’d thought.

“There’s no fucking problem,” he asserts nonetheless, not keen to give Ian the satisfaction of outsmarting him. He’d had a point when he’d marched in here, if only he could remember now what exactly that had been. “Just making sure _you_ didn’t have a problem, asshole.”

Ian shrugs.

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Okay,” Mickey says, the fight slowly beginning to drip away from him, though he doesn’t feel like anything had been accomplished, really. He has a lingering feeling that Ian had _won_ though what game exactly they were playing Mickey has no idea. “Okay, so there’s no problem. Gotcha. Fucking see ya.” He turns to leave, heart thundering because Ian is looking at him, looking at him like he has something he wants to say but Mickey gave him his chance. If he’s gonna act like a little bitch then whatever, mickey aint staying around for it.

He heads back towards the door, he’s done here.

“Mickey,” Ian calls out to him and despite himself, Mickey’s hand stills on the cool metal handle of the studio door he’d been moments away from wrenching open. He glances over his shoulder and Ian looks so fucking hopeless it’s almost endearing.

“What,” he demands when Ian says nothing.

“You know, we _could_ be friends?”

“The fuck would we do that for?” Mickey says with furrowed brows. It’s such a juvenile request, the last time someone asked Mickey so outright to be his friend, he’d kicked him into the mud and stolen his lunch money.

Mickey thinks he’s grown up at least somewhat since then, but that doesn’t mean he has any kind of reasonable response to such an embarrassing request.

All the same, his hand slips from the door handle, any intentions he’d had of leaving slipping away.

Ian, as always, fails to give Mickey the satisfaction of reacting to his words as he rolls his eyes once more in Mickey’s direction.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re an asshole?” he says, striding across the studio to collect his phone from where it’s still hooked up to the speakers. Mickey watches him go, admires once again the real spectacle that is Ian’s ass in those pants despite himself.

“Once or twice,” he responds, almost smiling.

“Just checking,” Ian says. He pockets his phone, grabs his gym back and walks in turn towards Mickey who stands still in front of the door, though Ian doesn’t look to be in any way eager to leave. “Because you really are kind of an asshole.”

And Mickey knows that’s true, but he has to admire Ian’s balls to say it so bluntly. He’s reminded of his easy friendship with Benny, how they drag each other and give each other shit just because.

“What does that say about you, man. You’re the one asking to be my fucking friend.”

And somehow, Ian is smiling fully now.

“Wanna get outta here?” he suggests with a playful smirk, shifting his bag further up his shoulder.

“What, you asking me on a fucking date now, Gallagher? Thought you wanted to do the friend thing.” He’s deferring and he knows it, stalling from having to give Ian any kind of response because he’s still figuring out what the hell is happening here.

“I’m asking you if you wanna go get shit-faced drunk with me.”

Mickey frowns.

“Thought you didn’t drink,” he questions, remembering how Ian had turned down his offer of a beer the first time they’d met, how he’d specified no caffeine, no alcohol when he’d found himself in Mickey’s apartment at 3am.

Ian is still grinning when he reaches beside Mickey to pull open the door.

“Do you wanna get wasted or do you wanna police my alcohol consumption, Milkovich?”

It’s a bad idea. Mickey knows that much. But somehow it’s an offer he can’t seem to find it in himself to turn down.

“Can I at least get a fucking shower first, please?”

* * *

Mickey should have predicted that Ian would take him to a fucking gay bar in Boystown.

It’s not the worst place he’s ever been to, and the fear he’d grown up with of being seen at a place like this has faded with the years of separation and with his father’s death. But Mickey has never been into clubs, and he begins to question why he allowed himself to follow Ian here in the first place as the pounding senseless music assaults his ears.

He knows he can never fit in at a place like this even if he wanted to. Everyone here is just so goddamn picture perfect, lifted right out of the magazines he used to hide under the loose floorboard under his dresser. The boys dancing on the podiums seem somehow unreachable, despite the crowd of hands reaching out to fondle, slipping bills of varying value into their waistbands.

Mickey’s not into the exhibitionism of it all, repulsed in fact by the arrogance but it doesn’t stop his gaze from lingering for just a fraction too long.

“See anything you like?” Ian asks with amusement.

“Fuck off, I’m just here to drink, man.”

Ian shrugs, steering them towards the bar and pulling out his wallet.

“Beer?” he offers simply.

Mickey is about to protest, not sure if letting Ian buy him a drink is the best idea but decides instead to just go with it, forcing his tense shoulders to relax and knowing that it’s a meaningless, friendly gesture. There’s no reason he shouldn’t be here, there’s no reason a 25 year old guy can’t just enjoy a night out with a guy he knows.

Mickey looks up at the selection of spirits, knowing that the slight buzz from a couple beers isn’t gonna cut it here.

“Get me a fucking whiskey.”

Ian raises his brows before calling over the bartender.

Seeing Ian with a beer in hand is strange. Mickey can’t pretend to know the guy inside out, but he’d built the picture up in his head and that picture was of some goody-two-shoes, perpetual-designated-driver, holds-Mandy’s-hair-while-she-pukes kind of guy. A part of him wants to know what his deal is, why he was so particular and restrained about it before. He seems as though to be a different Ian entirely now, but the music is loud and Mickey doesn’t think he’d catch half of Ian’s story even if he was inclined to ask for it.

Ian leads them to a corner of the bar away from the dancefloor which Mickey is grateful for because he’d need to be all kinds of wasted to even think of going anywhere near there. There’s a small ledge to place their drinks and Mickey is glad to have somewhere he can put his back against the wall.

He has nothing to hide, not in a place like this, but the lingering feeling that he shouldn’t be here, that suspicious eyes are following him makes him queasy and Mickey much prefers being able to scope his surroundings in any situation.

It’s all in his head of course, no one is paying Mickey any attention except Ian, who eyes him curiously.

“So, you’ve never been to a gay bar?” he attempts to deduce, framing it as a question as he takes a swig of beer. Mickey sends a scowl in his direction.

“Been to plenty of fucking gay bars.”

“But…?”

Mickey sighs, allowing Ian just a smidgen of honesty from him.

“Not really my thing,” he admits. He’s done the gay bar scene, gotten blown in the bathroom and fucked in the alley, so sue him if he prefers a quiet night somewhere local these days.

“You just stick to picking up guys in the locker room at the gym instead?” Ian says with mirth decorating his voice.

“Fuck you, you started that shit anyway,” Mickey says indignantly.

Ian frowns, clearly in disagreement.

“Uh, you kissed me first,” he points out, which, Mickey realises, isn’t exactly a lie. The music pounds relentlessly around them and Mickey can’t believe they’re having this fucking conversation.

“Like you weren’t trying to get in my fucking pants from day one,” he bickers back.

“Didn’t even know you were gay until you kissed me, dude.” And Ian’s voice is so casual, so matter of fact as he takes another sip of his beer that Mickey almost believes him.

“’Zat so,” he says, lips curling into a reluctant smile despite himself as he humours Ian’s obvious bullshit. Ian smirks back, glancing at Mickey before staring straight ahead and putting the rim of the bottle to his lips.

“I might have gotten the hint after I caught you staring at my junk.”

“You’re a fucking dick,” Mickey mutters but there’s no malice in it as he nurses his whiskey. It’s a double, and it’s the good shit as well so he supposes his night could be going worse right now. 

“Are you…” Ian starts before abandoning the thought with an uncertain glance Mickey’s way. Mickey is half tempted to chase the thought, get him to spit out whatever is on his mind but then Ian is pushing himself away from the wall with a decisive “Come on.”

“I’m not going anywhere near that fucking dance floor Gallagher,” Mickey asserts. Ian says nothing, just continues leading the way and Mickey, against all his best judgement, allows himself to follow.

It turns out the bar has an outdoor area. The music from inside plays through a couple of smaller speakers mounted to the outside of the brick wall but the volume is much more tolerable, and Mickey finds he can actually hear himself think. The space is cosily fenced off, with fairy lights draped across the fencing to keep it reasonably well lit. There are a number of guys out here, but it’s not half as crowded as inside, it’s almost nice, Mickey thinks. Quiet.

Ian finds them a table against the wall.

“This better?”

“It’s whatever, man. Don’t give a shit,” Mickey says, not wanting to seem like he actually cares too much.

“Such a conversationalist,” Ian teases. “Seriously, you should do TED Talks.”

“Are you always this goddamn irritating?” Mickey says, though finding he doesn’t really mean the words. He huffs out a reluctant laugh, shaking his head at Ian’s nonplussed expression.

And somehow, it’s enough to put Mickey at ease. The strength of the whiskey is enough to help his muscles relax, to help him let his guard down.

He watches as Ian finishes off the last of his beer, examining the bottle afterwards with a frown.

“Shit,” he says, upon realising that it’s empty. “Shouldn’t’ve drank that so fast.”

Mickey doesn’t exactly see the problem, his own drink is mostly ice now anyway, so he stands, grabbing Ian’s bottle as he does so, intending to grab them another round, but Ian looks hesitant, biting his lip with a frown and it’s enough to force Mickey to pause.

“What? You gonna tell me you’ve had enough? Thought we were getting wasted here?” Ian gazes at him for just a moment before responding.

“Thanks,” he says, as though making some kind of internal decision, the hesitation from before easing away as he sits back into his seat.

Mickey has no idea what he’s doing exactly as he heads to the bar, he’s far from tipsy but his head is starting to become pleasantly foggy, and he finds himself easing a little as the night passes. He gets their drinks and returns to their outdoor table, happy to be somewhat secluded but still allowing the electric buzz from inside to infiltrate, pulse within him and make him feel, for the first time in a long while, like his age.

It doesn’t take him long to figure out why Ian had seemed so concerned over finishing his beer so quickly, the guy’s a fucking lightweight, and that much becomes apparent about halfway through his second beer; there’s a definitive slur to his words by this point, more so than anyone should reasonably have after less than two beers. He also notices how the smallest of things are now lighting up his face with the joy of a kid on Christmas fucking morning as Ian talks about the local amateur drama club and their summer musical he’s choreographing for.

Mickey can’t help but find it almost infectious, smiling into his glass as he takes a sip to disguise himself. With two double whiskeys under his belt, Mickey isn’t far behind him, he realises, as the fairy lights start to blur a little and the story isn’t half as tedious as he thinks it ought to be.

“Two fucking beers, man. Two,” Mickey laughs after another hour or so of meaningless conversation. He’s almost finished his third whiskey by now, but Ian had declined another beer himself, having forced himself to slow down on his second but the effect of it still more than evident. “It’s like drinking with a fucking 8 year old.”

“Fuck you, ‘m not s’posed to drink anyways,” Ian confesses, his words melting together.

Mickey frowns at that.

“Why not?” he asks soberly, suddenly plagued by the thought that he’s some kind of recovering alcoholic or something and he’d sat and let _this_ happen.

Ian shakes his head, avoiding the subject as he remains silent. Again, Mickey feels that urge to push, get him to spit it out but he reels it in, knowing it’s none of his fucking business and not wanting to open a can of worms that’s best left as it is.

“I can’t figure you out,” Ian eventually states, avoiding the question and resting his elbow on the table and placing his chin in his hand, as though analysing Mickey like he’s some kind of logic puzzle for him to solve.

“Nothing to fucking figure out, Sherlock,” he says, draining the last dregs from his glass and avoiding the intensity of Ian’s stare. He looks like he’s about to say something but then changes his mind, standing up on wobbly feet and tugging at Mickey’s shirt.

“Come on, I wanna dance,” he declares.

“No,” Mickey says outrightly, shaking his head resolutely, “no fucking way. You wanna shake your ass then that’s fine, but I ain’t joining.”

“Please?” Ian pouts, still persistently tugging at Mickeys sleeve.

“You drag me anywhere near the dance floor and I’ll break your fucking legs,” Mickey threatens but it falls on deaf ears. Ian never does take Mickey’s threats seriously and he’s still trying to figure out if that’s gonna be a problem. 

Reluctantly, Mickey lets Ian pull him to his feet, but he has no intention of stepping foot on the dancefloor. He downs the rest of his drink, leaving the empty glass on the table and follows Ian inside, eyes scanning the place for the restroom instead.

Ian pouts again when he leaves but Mickey ignores it, cheerfully flipping him off instead.

The bathrooms are pretty fucking disgusting, discarded condoms in the urinals and a number of stains he really has no desire to investigate further but, as far as gay club bathrooms go, he knows it could be worse. The lights are just a bit too bright though, and Mickey finds himself swaying as he unzips, the effects of his drinking making themselves suddenly more apparent now that he’s upright and alone.

He can feel the control slipping from his fingers, inhibitions fading and he knows he needs to be careful. 

They’re friends now, apparently. Ian had been clear about that, this is what friends do, this is what they’re doing and there’s no overstepping because it’s what they both agreed. Right?

Mickey’s thoughts start to unravel as he struggles to reach a coherent train of thought.

Returning to the bar, Mickey is surprised to find Ian right where he left him. He never made it to the dancefloor and instead there’s a creepy old fuck with a hand caressing Ian’s shoulder with far too much familiarity for a guy who looks more than twice his age.

Mickey narrows his eyes.

Ian is quite evidently uncomfortable, humouring the guy out of politeness as he stumbles a little unsteadily, eyes darting around the place for a means of escape. Mickey marches over without hesitation.

“-such a shame, Ian. You always captivated the whole room.”

“I don’t do that shit anymore, Ned.”

Mickey catches the last of the conversation before making his presence known with a clearing of his throat. Ian’s eyes focus in on him with something that looks like relief, but it doesn’t mask the discomfort, clear in the way he’s holding his arms across his chest and tensing his jaw.

“You wanna back the fuck off or what, Grandpa?” Mickey steps in.

“I’m sorry, I don’t believe we’ve met.” The guy brushes Mickey’s hostility away gracefully and with infuriating calmness. Mickey chooses to smile, a facsimile of politeness, nodding towards the hand still digging possessively into Ian’s shoulder.

“I said get your hands off him.”

“We’re just talking,” Ned defends, though he does release his hand from Ian’s shoulder, holding both up in a gesture of innocence that Mickey doesn’t buy for a single second.

“It’s fine, Mick,” Ian says without any sense of conviction, clearly just an attempt to diffuse the tension, “he’s just an old friend.”

“Yeah? Real fucking _old_ friend from what I’m looking at.”

He’d clearly heard worse insults, and rightfully so, because Wrinkles, Ned, whatever, barely reacts to Mickey’s taunts, turning his attention back to Ian instead.

“Let me know if you’re ever back at the Fairy Tale,” he says salaciously, eyes trailing up and down Ian’s body, his hand finding its way to Ian’s waist despite Mickey’s threats. “I never could turn down a ginger snap.”

Mickey has just about had enough as his instincts take over. He rips the guys hands from Ian, twisting his wrist painfully back and finally eliciting a response from the old fucker, his legs buckling beneath him as he releases a pitiful yelp with the pain.

“I thought I told you to get your fucking hands off him.” Mickey pushes him back, releasing his wrist and watching the guy stumble to find his balance.

Ian watches wide-eyed but says nothing. Ned glances between the two of them, cradling his wrist.

“Point taken,” he says evenly towards Mickey before adding with a wink, “I don’t like people touching my things either.”

And Mickey is just enough on the wrong side of drunk to not stand for him taking the last word like that, especially not while insinuating Ian is a fucking possession or something. With clenched fists, he barely has a millisecond to convince himself not to before his fist is colliding with the guy’s jaw.

“Jesus, Mickey,” Ian exclaims as Ned collapses at their feet and Mickey shakes his knuckles from the pain. Ian takes a hesitant step towards him, the do-gooder in him wanting to make sure Mickey didn’t cause too much damage but as quickly as he takes a step forward, he’s taking another one back again and Mickey can instantly see why.

All eyes are on them now. Mickey can already see one of the bouncers heading their way.

“Shit.”

Mickey knows adding another assault charge to his record won’t bode well for him. “Shit,” he mutters again, taking a step back and feeling suddenly trapped but then Ian’s wrist is grabbing his and tugging him back towards the outdoor seating area.

The fence is too high to climb, but there are enough tables to give them a boost up and Mickey follows to where Ian is already climbing atop one of them, knocking several drinks over and earning him a number of choice words aimed in his direction which would be harsh if either of them actually gave a fuck right now.

Once they’ve hopped the fence, they don’t stop running. Mickey can feel the pavement pounding beneath his feet, adrenaline coursing through him as they race past buildings, cars, dog-walkers and a whole host of the ordinary.

And then suddenly they’re laughing, and hands are grabbing boisterously, shoving and teasing.

They find themselves in an alley god knows where, Mickey isn’t even sure if they’re still in Boystown, but at least they’re safe now, confident that no one is chasing them and both breathless from running.

No longer constrained by the darkness of the club or deafened by the relentless pounding music, he feels free, the whole city is at his feet and the evening is all theirs. He remembers the illusion of freedom he used to feel, pouring lighter fluid on the bonfire as a teenager and watching it burn, the destruction it would bring and the satisfaction he’d feel. But this is different. Mickey isn’t wearing that mask anymore, he isn’t trying to be anyone, isn’t trying to hide anything.

With whiskey still coursing through his bloodstream and not a single other thought on his mind, Mickey is doing nothing more than simply allowing himself to be.

He gets Ian in a playful headlock and Ian is laughing loud and sweet from where Mickey has him in his grasp before he manages to slip free, pinning Mickey’s arms in turn behind his back and shoving him against the wall.

“Check Mate,” he teases as Mickey’s fogged brain catches up to the new position, wondering how the hell Ian managed to get the upper hand. He releases him shortly after though. Mickey turns, chest heaving, a hint of a smile playing at his lips as he stares at Gallagher who looks much the same.

His eyes slip traitorously to Ian’s lips and Ian must notice because his smile widens knowingly.

“Come on,” he says, ignoring the fact and turning to walk in the opposite direction. “My place isn’t far.”

“You’re place?” Mickey says, still somewhat out of breath but following after Ian nonetheless, his body thrums at the implications.

“Yeah, just a couple blocks,” Ian says, nodding in the direction they’re walking, “you can…call a cab from there or, you know. Whatever,” he finishes with uncertainty.

“Sure.” And Mickey smiles into the word, knowing what Ian wants, what he’s secretly hoping for, and somehow finding himself not rejecting it. Their conversation that afternoon feels only moments ago yet simultaneously like eons have passed. Maybe it’s the whiskey coursing through his bloodstream but the whole concept of them navigating being just friends feels not only pointless but futile.

They fall into a comfortable silence as they walk, both fighting to regain their breath from running god knows how far. All Mickey can tell is that they’re not in Boystown anymore at least, the sudden and distinct lack of rainbow flags being his primary clue, the lack of illicit moans coming from alleys being his secondary. 

“Who was that guy anyway?” Mickey decides to ask after a few moments of quiet filled only by the sound of their footsteps falling slowly into sync.

“No one important.”

“You fuck him?” Mickey interrogates and Ian has enough self-awareness to blush but he only gives himself a moment of self-consciousness before he turns on Mickey.

“Why, you jealous?” he asks cockily. Mickey school his own expression, refusing to give anything away as he responds.

“The fuck would I be jealous for? I don’t wanna bang that wrinkled sack of bones. He’s all yours, man.”

Ian snorts, shoving Mickey gently while Mickey tries and fails now to hide his own smile, marvelling out how goddamn easy this all feels. 

“He used to buy me stuff,” Ian continues, “and I was young and stupid enough to think it meant something. Haven’t seen him in years though, guess he took me by surprise tonight. Sorry for making the night weird.”

“Yeah well, the fucker got what was coming for him,” Mickey decides, refusing to feel remorse for losing his temper. “Asshole was looking at you like you were one of them twinks shaking their dick for cash up on the podiums.”

Ian hesitates for a split moment before releasing a heavy breath and confessing. “That’s probably because I used to be one of those twinks who shook his dick for cash up on a podium.” He stares resolutely ahead, eyes purposely avoiding Mickeys as he nods as though confirming the fact.

“No shit?” Mickey replies slowly, unsure what the correct response should be. It’s not like he gives a shit, but he can see the way Ian doesn’t exactly find it to be a fond memory and doesn’t want to push. Ordinarily Mickey would hardly hesitate to find the smallest rip in someone confidence and pull the thread, exposing all the insecurities beneath but he doesn’t. With Ian, he simply doesn’t have that desire.

“At a different club,” he confirms, “dance school is expensive.”

“You’re full of fucking surprises, Gallagher,” Mickey says, almost fondly, but the smile he receives in return makes it worth it.

As promised, Ian’s building isn’t far, and Ian’s pace begins to slow to a halt outside as they approach.

“So, thanks for hanging out with me,” Ian says, sinking his hands into his pockets and hunching over slightly. He’s looking at Mickey with an expression that can almost be described as sweet.

At least it would be if Mickey were the kind of person to describe anything as _sweet_.

Ian is treading carefully and it’s painfully obvious. There’s now a line drawn in the sand that he can’t cross, a line that Ian had drawn himself and Mickey had welcomed it because at the time it had seemed like the only reasonable, logical way forward with whatever the fuck it is they’re doing, or _not_ doing.

But Mickey is now starting to realise that the rigid rules he’d created to surround himself with don’t exist. At least, not in any way that matters to anyone but his own stubborn mind. The criteria that he holds himself to is arbitrary, a nonsensical formula born of years of hiding in the closet. 

He has his hands on the goddamn steering wheel and there’s nothing stopping him from making that hard turn that will have him spinning off the dirt road.

He reaches forward and tugs at Ian’s shirt, pulling him forcefully down to crash their lips together unashamedly and feeling the connection instantly electrify every nerve in his whole body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! I promise the next update won't take as long as this one did!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes I'm so sorry for the long wait. I'd mostly finished writing this chapter about 2 weeks ago and then a whole bunch of life related stuff happened.
> 
> But here she is, and if it's any consolation, this is the longest chapter so far!

The first thing Mickey notices as consciousness comes to him - sluggishly at first like thick, viscous honey – is the scent of something _other_. It’s not bad, far from it, just unexpected.

And disconcertingly familiar.

He nestles his head into the pillow, determined to recapture the bliss that is those first few moments fresh from sleep before thoughts begin to pollute the mind. But the smell captures him still, all around him. It’s in the pillow, in the sheets and Mickey knows he isn’t in his own bed.

He also knows he isn’t alone.

"I don't think we're very good at the whole being friends thing,” a murmured, half-conscious voice speaks from behind him, accompanied by a bodily shuffle positioning him closer to Mickey and nestling his nose into the nape of Mickey’s neck, hand trailing carefully along his waist.

Ian.

Fuck.

It’s a knee-jerk response that isn’t going to go away after one stupid tipsy night together, Mickey panics, feeling it constrict his chest relentlessly. His fists clench, shoulders tense, and he can’t help but abrasively shrug himself out of Ian’s affectionate grip and Ian has enough awareness at least to pull his hand away.

He’s in Ian’s bed. In Ian’s home.

Normally at this point, providing that Mickey hadn’t bolted the moment things had concluded between him and whoever’s bed he’d find himself in, Mickey would make as discreet an exit as possible. Head home, have a shower, carry on with his goddamn life, but he knows the chance to keep this contained is long behind him.

“Sure,” Mickey mumbles in reply as he settles back down, rubbing his eyes and claiming morning sluggishness as an excuse for being unable to form a coherent response, not because he just doesn’t have one.

They really do suck at the whole being friends things, Ian has that right at least.

But really, when he thinks back to last night, to the way Ian had managed to slowly – painstakingly so – pull him apart inch by inch, muscle by muscle, he can’t find a logical reason for them to even entertain the idea of just being just friends.

It was nothing short of fucking outstanding.

Ian knows what he’s doing when it comes to sex, and Mickey isn’t about to fucking complain about it. Not when Ian’s lips had been trailing up and down the inside of his thighs for what had felt like _hours_ , causing his muscles to tremble with sheer anticipation despite his pleas for Ian to hurry the fuck up. Not when Ian had traced every inch of Mickey’s skin with feather light fingertips, Goosebumps erupting over his flesh and sparking like currents beneath his skin. And certainly not when Ian had finally, _finally_ pushed into him, stretching him blissfully open and Mickey had gotten to know once and for all exactly what Ian’s cock felt like inside him, stretching him, filling him, pounding relentlessly until Mickey had come harder than he has in fucking years.

He’s not certain exactly what time they’d fallen asleep, doesn’t remember much after spilling all over Ian’s sheets except for the chill that had come over him when Ian had left momentarily, returning with a damp cloth.

They’d kissed, he remembers that much. Mickey doesn’t know the last time, if ever, he kissed someone _after_ sex but he’d let Ian kiss him sweetly as he cleaned them both. Mickey must have passed out not long after.

And fuck, Mickey thinks upon realising the sheets are still kind of disgusting and knowing he’s going to have to take a shower before he leaves, this is definitely not how he’s accustomed to waking up the morning after.

The fact is, Mickey likes sex, and Ian is _good_ at it. He just doesn’t know what’s supposed to happen now.

"You want breakfast?" Ian asks through a yawn, sitting up and stretching his arms above his head. If he’d detected the extent of Mickey’s earlier panic upon waking, he shows no signs of it.

Deciding it about time to give up on feigning sleep, Mickey rolls onto his back, resting his arm against his forward as his eyes adjust to the morning light seeping through the slit in the curtains.

"Nah, man. Should probably go," he excuses, feeling already like he’s overstayed his welcome and not exactly feeling up to sharing fucking pancakes or whatever the morning after, it’s all too domestic for Mickey’s liking.

"Thought you weren't working today?"

"Nah, but I got a…thing that's soon so..." In reality, Mickey just can’t ignore the voice in his head insisting that he run, like always. Would it really be that hard to pretend this shit didn’t happen? All he knows is that he needs to a little time to figure his way through the fact that he somehow can’t stop himself coming back for more when he promised himself he wouldn’t get involved in the first place.

Judging from the tight line of his mouth and disdainfully raised eyebrows, Ian is quite clearly seeing right through his attempted bullshit. The realisation dawns that he isn’t going to be able to slip Ian as easily this time, he really has no way out unless he plans on doing something drastic like jumping out the window.

Which, in reality, Mickey is only 75% sure would be a bad idea, as he eyes the curtains in consideration.

God he’s being a pussy.

"We need to get on the same page here Mickey," Ian persists, and god damn Mickey doesn't think there's anything he wants less but then Ian is continuing. "Look I'm not exactly gonna wax poetic about my fucking feelings for you or any kind of bullshit like that, but we need to lay some ground rules at least, right? I need to know where I stand. You keep saying you're done with this and then..."

And then. Mickey knows all too well.

He rubs his hands across his face.

"Fine," he mumbles into his hands, sitting up in the bed, suddenly very aware of the fact that he's still naked as the sheets pool in his lap. “Are you always so goddamn chatty in the morning?”

Ian smiles at that, ignoring the glare Mickey sends his way and rising from the bed to rummage for some clothes. Mickey steals as glance as he does so, seeing now in the clear morning light the definition on Ian’s ass in all its glory. The guy really is a fucking spectacle and it almost makes him wonder what exactly Ian is getting out of this whole deal. He could clearly get anyone he set his eyes on and he went and got himself caught up on an emotionally constipated ex-convict.

Mickey watches as he pulls on some boxers and a shirt before heading to the kitchenette.

Ian’s studio is pretty small, but Mickey can tell he’s done what he can to maximise the space. The bed sits against the back wall, sitting adjacent to the big wide window which takes up half the wall it adorns. Opposite the bed is a small loveseat, a small wooden coffee table sitting in front of it with a tiny flatscreen TV resting atop it. The kitchen is situated in the far corner of the L shaped room, so Mickey can only hear what it is he’s doing in there as his head falls back onto the pillow, the scent of Ian engulfing him once more.

He knows he needs to move, collect his clothes from the floor and stop wallowing in his own overactive mind but he allows himself just a few moments longer with eyes closed so he can figure out what the fuck he’s actually doing.

Once dressed, Mickey treads around the corner to find Ian in the kitchenette.

He’s swallowing a pill and Mickey finds it almost laughable the guy needs an aspirin after getting drunk on two beers. At least Mickey’s headache is somewhat warranted.

Ian seems almost caught by surprised at the sight of Mickey, his whole body tensing up which is ridiculous because his entire apartment is like 2 square feet, it’s hardly possible to sneak up on someone here. The moment doesn’t last long though because then Ian has his back to him and he’s pulling a couple of cups from the cupboard.

“You want coffee?” he offers as he busies himself with the pot.

“What, so you’re an alcoholic and a caffeine addict now?” Mickey says through a frown. Ian glares at him over his shoulder, but that doesn’t change the fact that Mickey is confused. Everything he’d assumed upon meeting Ian has so far been debunked. When they’d met, he couldn’t help but see some north side douchebag who thought the fucking _arts_ were the only thing that mattered in this world, someone who had never had to worry about how he was gonna put fucking food on the table or pay the water bill. He’d built this persona of some kind of arrogant put together, perfectly adjusted, healthy lifestyle living with a dog in a sweater kind of asshole.

And now he finds out he used to strip for cash, doesn’t, in fact, give much of a shit about what he puts in his body judging by the instant ramen packets Mickey can spot in his cupboard and fuck, Mickey had even beat the shit out of his ex last night and Ian had hardly batted an eyelid.

On top of all that, he’s an astoundingly good fuck.

Colour Mickey fucking intrigued by Ian Gallagher.

“It’s decaf, actually,” Ian corrects somewhat sheepishly as he fills two cups.

“Who the fuck drinks decaf?” Mickey accuses as he accepts the offered drink nonetheless.

“No one,” Ian admits, “It’s fucking disgusting.” He leans back against the counter cradling the cup between his hands. “But I’m not really supposed to have caffeine so…”

“What the fuck you talking about, not supposed to?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ian deflects and Mickey wants to push, but he knows what he’s doing, trying to find any way out of the conversation that Ian seems so keen on having, if the soft, patient yet expectant looks he’s giving him is any indication.

Mickey shakes his head, knows he’s gonna have to get this over with sooner or later.

“Look, I’m not gonna be your fucking boyfriend or whatever,” Mickey states with as much finality as he can manage. Maybe it's a little harsh but he just needs to say it, needs to make the fact known because this has already gone further than it should ever have done in the first place. He doesn’t know what this is exactly but it isn’t that and he needs to set that record straight at least.

"I never fucking asked you to be,” Ian counters with a shrug, as though that much were obvious, and maybe it was, maybe Mickey had been assuming too much, thinking Ian wanted more from him than he actually does.

"So...what?" Mickey says, just to clarify, feeling something akin to optimism blooming inside him at the fact that maybe this isn’t going to be as complicated as he’d thought.

"We can still be friends. Just. Friends who, occasionally, fuck,” Ian dictates, his words almost experimental.

Mickey bites his lip as he considers. It's actually not the worst idea. It'd make things a hell of a lot simpler in terms of getting laid on the regular and fuck, it means he can stop second guessing every move he makes around the guy.

"What, you mean like a friends with benefits situation?"

Ian shrugs in response.

"Doesn't that shit always get fucking complicated?" Mickey says, still with a touch of uncertainty about the idea. He doesn't hate the suggestion but there are several hundred movies about why no strings attached arrangements always end up tied up in knots. He should know, Mandy watches them on the regular.

"What, scared you'll fall in love with me?" Ian teases.

"Fuck off," Mickey says and okay, maybe this can be different. Because he knows his own mind and Ian, apparently seems to be cool about the whole thing. Maybe when it's two dudes, feelings are less likely to make things complicated.

Maybe it really can be as simple as that. Mickey can have his cake and eat it too.

* * *

When he finally gets home, having showered at Ian’s but still feeling somewhat grungy in yesterday’s clothes, Mandy is cooking up some breakfast and Mickey can feel his stomach grumbling the moment he opens the door.

“The fuck were you last night?” Mandy asks with disinterest with a glance over her shoulder.

“Who gives a shit, you making eggs?” Mickey all but crawls to the kitchen to look over his sister’s shoulder. He had planned on heading straight to bed to catch up on the lost hours of sleep but decides he can spare a moment to eat first. Mandy makes the goddamn best scrambled eggs and Mickey could really go for some greasy breakfast right about now, his mouth practically salivating at the thought.

“What did your one-night stand not offer to make you breakfast?” she teases.

“Fuck you,” he retorts, pushing passed her to grab some orange juice from the fridge.

“Was he cute at least?” Mickey almost chokes on the juice he’s chugging straight from the bottle.

“We’re not doing this,” he states after clearing his throat, realising a moment too late that he’d basically confirmed the fact that he’d slept with _someone_ as he returns the bottle to the fridge.

“So, he just had a big dick then?”

“Jesus, fuck I’ll make my own fucking breakfast. Just shut the fuck up,” Mandy rolls her eyes before cracking another couple of eggs in the pan.

“Why are you so fucking cranky?”

“Why are you such a bitch?” Mandy responds with an eloquent middle finger. Mickey takes a seat at the counter, silently hoping that she still plans on making him food after their bickering. His places his heads in his hand, trying to will the headache away when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. Instinctively he takes it out and sees it’s a text from Ian. He’d insisted they exchange numbers before Mickey left but he wasn’t expecting to hear from him so soon.

“That him?” Mandy asks curiously over her shoulder, obviously trying to pry. Mickey glares at her.

“No. Why the fuck would I get the dude’s number?” Mickey bites back, returning his eyes to his phone and opening the text.

It’s a selfie and Mickey hastily locks his phone, eyes darting towards Mandy to check that there was no way she caught a peak of the distinctive red head. She has her back turned though and is scooping eggs onto two plates, so Mickey quickly unlocks his phone once more to find out what the fuck Gallagher is doing sending him pictures and shit.

It’s just an ordinary fucking selfie, he’s not even nude or anything, but he’s holding a familiar looking brown wallet and the image is followed by the caption

_(09:45) Forgot something?_

Fuck.

Mickey groans internally. He’d planned on catching up on some much-needed sleep but now he’s gonna have to trek all the way back to Gallagher’s to get his fucking wallet.

“What?” Mandy says, placing a plate of eggs in front of him and noticing his expression.

“Nothing,” he says, digging in and replying quickly with one hand to let Ian know he’ll be back to pick it up soon.

He eats quickly, Mandy eventually ignoring him and typing rapidly on her own phone while she eats. Another text comes through, but he waits until he’s finished and rinsing his place to check it.

_(09:51) Sorry, already on my way to the studio. Meet me there?_

Mickey rolls his eyes, at least the gym is closer to his apartment.

* * *

There’s music coming from the studio when Mickey arrives and his irritation grows at the assumption that he’s gonna have to wait around for Ian’s class to finish but, as he approaches the door, he’s able to peak through the narrow window to see that Ian is thankfully alone.

Pushing open the door, Mickey doesn’t bother with being discreet, letting it close loudly behind him. Ian eyes him from over his shoulder but doesn’t stop, so Mickey leans against the wall, arms crossed and waits.

He should complain, demand Gallagher just give him his fucking wallet so he can leave already but he can’t help but admit that watching Ian do whatever the fuck it is he does is somewhat captivating to say the least, and Mickey simply lets himself watch.

He can’t describe the way Ian moves. He’s strong, powerful yet somehow light as air as his feet glide across the space, like his whole body is weightless.

Mickey doesn’t recognise the song. It’s slower than what Ian usually dances to, and he takes his time stepping into every move, his body bending in ways that Mickey didn’t think possible. His skin is already glistening with a sheen of sweat but apart from than that, there’s no sign of effort from Ian. He just moves, as easy as that and Mickey is transfixed.

He bites his lip, can’t look away as Ian sinks low onto his knees, bends backwards and offers an upside-down smirk to Mickey before he’s up again and on one leg, raising the other above his head.

Mickey knows nothing about dance styles or any of that shit but what Ian is doing looks almost like fucking ballet or something, the way he lifts himself, leaps and twirls and lands with barely a sound. It’s almost fucking pornographic in a way he contorts himself.

“Sorry,” Ian says when he eventually finishes, chest heaving slightly as he wipes his brow. “got an audition coming up, so fitting in as much practice as I can.”

Mickey almost asks what kind of audition but stop himself, finding that’s he’s still somewhat hesitant when it comes to actually getting to know Ian. They’re friends who fuck, emphasis on the _fuck_.

“Looks good, I guess,” he settles for instead, arms still crossed tightly against his chest and knowing that his opinion is worth little. Ian seems to have other thoughts though because he smiles wide at the compliment.

“Thanks, those last couple of moves have been kicking my ass lately but I think I got it,” he says, walking towards the barre fixed to the mirror and raising his leg behind him. Mickey doesn’t know what to say, just watches as Ian’s leg just seems to go further and further and impossibly further.

“Jesus Christ, that’s not fucking natural,” he says when Ian’s leg is past the 180 point. He looks like he’s made of rubber. Ian laughs, gazing over at Mickey and stretching his leg another inch or so, raising his brows in a clear attempt to show off. “Okay, Stretch Armstrong, I get it, you’re fucking bendy, can I get my wallet back now?”

“Sure,” Ian says, releasing his leg and standing upright. He heads to his bag and crouches as he rummages through, tossing a brown leather wallet towards Mickey a moment later. Mickey catches it and mutters his thanks before pocketing it.

“You wanna come over tonight?” Ian asks casually, like he isn’t straight up asking Mickey to fuck. Mickey hesitates for just a moment.

“Sure,” he decides, thinking it over. He’s still sore from last night but the thought of having Ian do that to him again has his legs weakening. “Can’t stay over or nothing though, got work in the morning.” He also knows that staying out two nights in a row would be suspicious as fuck and he’d really like to get Mandy off his back.

Ian grins, stepping towards Mickey and hooking his fingers though his belt loops. For a moment Mickey thinks he’s going to kiss him but Ian simply smirks, holding Mickey’s hips close and he can feel the heat coursing through them, focusing in at the contact between them. 

“Looking forward to it,” Ian says before releasing him and turning to walk away. He looks over his shoulder at Mickey before he speaks again. “Hey, you wanna stick around for a while?”

“And do what?”

“I could teach you a few moves?”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Mickey doesn’t even hesitate in his response.

“Come on,” Ian says playfully, he’s walking back towards Mickey, grabbing his hips in both hands and forcing them both to sway before Mickey jerks back roughly.

“Do you wanna die?” he threatens, batting Ian’s hands away.

Ian laughs, puts his hands up in surrender, forcing Mickey to calm down.

“Okay, point taken,” he admits, the ghost of a smirk still tugging playfully at his lips and Mickey finds himself in that place again. That place of uncertainty and confusion, where he can’t seem to read Ian or his intentions and he wonders if this whole friends with benefits situation really is a good idea. But then Ian is looking at him so goddamn innocently, taking a sip from his water bottle. “I’ll see you tonight though, right?” he asks, and Mickey knows there’s no way he’s turning him down.

“Yeah,” he confirms, “I’ll see ya there.”

Nodding once towards Ian, Mickey takes his exit.

* * *

He tells Mandy he’s meeting Benny, knows she won’t question it or even care. It feels weird to lie. It’s like he’s a teenager again, letting his dad believe he was fucking Angie Zhago on the regular, hoping that by sheer volume of partners, she wouldn’t remember if they had or hadn’t should anyone be bothered to fucking inquire.

He can’t say why exactly it feels so important to him to keep this – whatever _this_ is – on the downlow, but Mickey just can’t stomach the idea of his sister knowing. He knows Mandy would make it into something it isn’t.

Or maybe she wouldn’t actually give a shit, he knows he doesn’t care who she fucks so there’s no reason for it to be any different for him.

He just doesn’t want anyone in his business.

When he knocks on Ian’s door, Mickey finds that he’s actually fucking nervous. As pathetic as the realisation leaves him feeling, he can’t help but notice the subtle tremor to his hand. He hopes to god he isn’t wrong about this, that they really are on the same page and all this is is a scheduled fuck because that’s just about as much as Mickey can handle right now.

Once Ian opens the door however, it seems that all of Mickey’s fears were unfounded. In lieu of any form of greeting, Ian simply pulls Mickey inside the door and within milliseconds his mouth is upon him.

Mickey’s mind empties as his back collides with the closed door behind him, Ian’s lips hungrily consuming his own. Ian’s hands are placed firmly at Mickey’s hips, holding him in place against the door as Mickey tightly grips the back of Ian’s head, fingers threading into the soft hair to gain as much leverage as he can as he presses just as eagerly back into the kiss.

This. This is perfect. _This_ is what he needs. There’s no room for words or conversations or hidden meanings obscured behind every interaction. This is pure animal instinct, and it’s what Mickey lives for. Why would anyone want to fuck up something as uncomplicated as this by _talking_ about it is beyond him.

Ian’s mouth eventually detaches from Mickey’s and he feels the loss instantly, chasing after Ian’s lips with his own until Ian fixates himself against Mickey’s neck, nuzzling his nose against it affectionately and places soft pecks against the skin.

Mickey lets his head fall back to rest against the wooden door as Ian licks a strip up his neck, one hand trailing from Mickey’s hip to his crotch and pressing the heel of his palm gently against him. Mickey lets out a whine as he does so, feels himself growing hard rapidly and senses the smile upon Ian’s lips pressing into his neck.

Ian’s administrations become somewhat more urgent once he detects Mickey’s obvious arousal. Mickey feels the graze of his teeth against his neck first before it quickly turns into sucking and as fucking euphoric as it feels, stimulating him so perfectly on his pulse point that he feels lightheaded, Mickey clamps his hand firmly amongst Ian’s hair and pulls him off.

“Mark me and I’ll fucking murder you,” he threatens breathlessly.

“Fucking pushy for a bottom,” Ian teases, squeezing his hand where it still cups Mickey’s dick and Mickey squeezes his eyes tightly shut as sparks fly through his veins.

“Fuck,” he breathes, fingers tightening, nails dragging across Ian’s scalp maybe too harshly though he doesn’t protest any pain. Instead, he makes quick work of Mickey’s belt buckle – why the fuck did he wear a belt, he knew what he was coming here for – and popping the button on his jeans. Before Mickey’s conscience can even keep up with what is happening, Ian is on his knees, roughly tugging Mickey’s underwear down and taking him into his mouth. “ _Fuck!”_ Mickey repeats as Ian gets to work.

Ian Gallagher certainly does have a fucking mouth on him.

Mickey is certain if Ian continues, he’ll bring an abrupt end to the evening’s plans by coming hard in his mouth so, reluctantly, he takes Ian by the chin and urges him away. Ian looks up at him with lust filled eyes, mouth open in an o-shape, the edges curved ever so slightly to form a mishappen grin, causing Mickey’s chest to constrict.

“Get the fucking lube,” he orders, voice stern and leaving no room for argument. 

Mickey pulls his pants up just enough so he can at least walk as Ian saunters towards his bed, tossing the lube and condom packets he’d left on his bedside table onto the sheets.

Mickey meets him at the foot of the bed and Ian is on him again a moment later, mouth connecting with his, breaking away briefly enough to tug Mickey’s shirt over his head urgently before working once again to push Mickey’s boxers down.

It becomes alarmingly apparent that Ian is still wearing far too many clothes while Mickey is quickly on his way to being stripped bare and he knows that that isn’t gonna cut it. Mickey tugs hastily at Ian’s button up, ripping a few buttons in the process but soon enough is slipping the thing off Ian’s shoulders, levelling the playing field somewhat as his hand trail greedily across Ian’s bare skin.

When Ian pulls back, biting his lip while his eyes gaze across Mickey’s body, Mickey decides he’s had just about enough foreplay and that it’s about time they got this show on the road. He shoves Ian forcefully onto the bed, climbing on top of him an instant later. He tugs Ian’s jeans off, seeing the outline of his dick concealed by his underwear. It’s already hard and Mickey’s lips twitch in anticipation.

Ian’s hands find his hips again and attempt to switch positions but Mickey digs his heel into the bed and forces Ian to stay put with a smirk. Ian’s brows raise as Mickey pins him.

“We’re doing this my way tonight, Gallagher. Aint your pussy little bitch, alright?”

“I didn’t hear any complaints last night,” Ian counters but has no objections to Mickey taking control, sitting back and allowing Mickey to strip his underwear off before taking as much of him as he can into his mouth.

Hands fumbling on the bed, he quickly locates the bottle of lube where it’s wedged underneath Ian’s ass and tugs it free, coating his hand with it liberally.

He preps himself quickly with one hand, sucking Ian’s cock eagerly in the process. The angle isn’t ideal but Mickey gets the task done, stretching himself enough to be able to take Ian.

Ian in turn voices his pleasure further up the bed, the sounds going straight Mickey’s cock and god he just wants to be on him, taking him, feeling the burn deep inside until it’s all he can think about.

Pulling off, Mickey takes a single moment to look Ian in the eyes, crawling up his body hungrily as he does so. Ian watches him motionless, eyes hooded with lust and hunger as his hands find Mickey’s hips, holding him gently.

Mickey smirks before leaning down to kiss him roughly. Ian’s hips thrust upwards and Mickey’s vision bursts with stars at the friction between them but he refrains from succumbing to it, forces himself the willpower to press Ian back down into the bed with one hand on his chest, separating their lips in the process.

“Sit up,” he says, attempting to be assertive but the breathlessness of his voice betrays him. Ian obeys nonetheless, positioning himself against the propped-up cushions on the bed.

Ian rolls the condom on and Mickey wastes no time in getting himself positioned. It burns at first, a dull ache as he seats himself but it’s a familiar, welcome pain. Ian kisses him through it, one hand on his hip, the other sweetly cradling his jaw. His breathe catches in the kiss as Mickey sinks down, settles himself comfortably on his knees and begins to lift off again.

“Fuck,” Ian whispers into Mickey’s mouth and Mickey replies with a smirk, capturing Ian’s bottom lip between his teeth and teasing it. He has both hands on the other man’s shoulders, uses them to leverage himself as he intends to ride Ian right into the mattress and fuck himself good.

He starts slow, working on getting the angle right and giving himself time to adjust, all the while Ian rubs encouraging circles into Mickey’s hips using his thumbs while mumbling a litany of curse words. He buries his head into Mickey’s shoulder as he does so and begins to bite playfully on Mickey’s collarbone, eliciting a grunt from deep within his chest at the sensation.

“Come on, Mickey,” Ian mumbles into his neck, “fuck, yeah. _God,_ you take it so good.” 

“You wanna shut the fuck up, man?” Mickey grunts. Talking during sex is not something he does. Ever. And dirty talk is so far out of his comfort zone that he’d be eternally grateful if Ian never spoke another word again. To his credit, Ian doesn’t push it, instead, pressing his fingers deep into Mickey’s flesh and jerking his hips upwards to meet Mickey’s pace.

They find their equilibrium quickly, pulsing together in unison and the only sounds that fill the room once Ian has zipped it are their laboured, panting breathes. As if he were a fucking expert or something, Ian manages to shift the angle of his hips _just right_ until his cock is pounding relentlessly against Mickey’s prostate and it’s at that moment he knows he’s done for.

As much as Mickey had insisted that he isn’t Ian’s _pussy little bitch,_ he makes no complaints when Ian hooks his leg around Mickey’s and effortlessly flips them over, wordlessly taking the reigns. With Mickey now on his back, Ian doesn’t hold back and he pounds himself deep inside Mickey, once, twice until finally he’s coming hard, eyes closed and forehead creased. Mickey’s fingers claw at Ian’s back, taking it all and following suit moments after Ian finally releases.

* * *

“Fuck I need a smoke,” Mickey says to the ceiling. Ian lays beside him, the both of them breathing heavily in the silence until Mickey broke it with his sudden craving. Wordlessly, Ian leans across him, bare chest hot against his own as he reaches for the drawer on his nightstand and rummages through. He pulls back a few moments later, settling heavily back onto the bed beside Mickey with a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter held to the tip.

Mickey watches as he takes a drag with closed eyes. It feels safe somehow to stare, to watch the gentle way his lips caress the tip, chest expanding as he inhales. That self-consciousness he so often gets after sex just isn’t there, in truth, all Mickey can think about is his goddamn nicotine craving.

Ian takes the cigarette from his mouth and passes it to Mickey, puffing out a lungful of smoke in the process.

“Don’t you, like, need your lungs and shit?” Mickey asks as he takes it. Ian shrugs.

“I’ve mostly quit,” he admits, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Just keep a pack around for special occasions.”

Mickey ignores that comment, whatever the fuck Ian means exactly by special occasions he doesn’t want to know but a wave of uncertainty nestles it’s way uninvited into his chest. It dissipates quickly though, when Ian stands up from the bed, unashamed in his nudity, and heads to the kitchen.

Mickey watches him walk away as he smokes, one eyebrow raised in pure appreciation. He returns just a moment later with a small cup which he places on the nightstand beside Mickey to catch the stray ashes.

“I’m fucking starving,” he says, throwing himself diagonally onto the bed. Mickey pushes himself up into a more comfortable sitting position as Ian looks up at him with those ridiculous eyes, playful, expectant, like he’s in on a joke Mickey knows nothing about. “Wanna order pizza?”

Mickey takes one more drag of the cigarette before passing it back to Ian.

“S’long as you don’t fucking order any of that Hawaiian shit.”

“Mmmm, extra sausage?” he suggests, almost managing to keep a straight face until a giveaway smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“What are you, in fucking high school or something?”

Ian answers with a wide grin before turning onto his stomach and reaching across to grab his phone, cigarette dangling from his mouth. Mickey waits until his back is turned before allowing the smile to creep onto his own lips.

It’s weird to say the least. Mickey’s no prude, far from it but, being so unused to any form of interaction after coming his fucking brains out, it’s an unfamiliar concept to him to just hang out in another dude’s bed while naked. But Ian is just weird and playful and unlike any of the guys Mickey has banged in the past, namely in the fact that he can actually stand to be in the same room as him for more than the time it takes to get off. If it weren’t for the fact that they were both currently ass naked, they could simply be two friends just hanging out. Which, Mickey supposes, was their intention at some point along the way.

Mickey can’t pretend to know what the fuck he’s doing, but he’ll admit that Gallagher is kinda fun to hang out with at least, even if he is an annoying attention seeking child a lot of the time.

“Should be around thirty minutes,” Ian says, placing his phone back in the nightstand and smirking at Mickey conspiratorially. “Think we have time to go again?”

* * *

Mickey gets home late. So late that he would have benefitted from just staying the night but he’d forced himself to order an uber to take him home a little after midnight and then it was past 1am by the time he’d collapsed into bed.

After their second fuck, they’d eaten greasy pizza on Ian’s couch adorned only in their underwear. Ian had been relentless in ensuring that Mickey never forgot he was there, kicking his heels playfully into Mickey’s thigh as they ate despite his grumblings that Ian was being an annoying motherfucker. He’d even climbed onto Mickey’s lap at one point, determined to feed him pizza in between messy kisses which, as much as he protested, Mickey found kind of hot.

Inevitably, once all that remained were a few half eaten crusts discarded in the pizza box, it was all too easy to succumb to a third round, right there on the sofa. Mickey still has a crick in his neck from being pressed up against the armrest.

Now, Mickey is begrudging the late night as he’s laying on his back fiddling around underneath the Chevy. He’s sore to say the least, and not just in his neck, a fact that makes itself known the more he has to contort himself into the small space under the car.

“Ay, why the fuck am I down here while all your useless ass does is pass me shit?” Mickey grumbles. They still haven’t finished the body work, but Benny had decided today of all days would be a great time for them to get up close and personal with the chassis, correction, for _Mickey_ to get up close and personal with the chassis.

“Last I checked you were the one that was four feet tall and able to crawl into small spaces,” Benny replies from above. It’s a good thing he kinda likes Benny or he’d be ripping him to pieces by now. They shoulda just put it up on the lift for the effort it’s turned out to be. The axles are massively out of line and what was supposed to be a quick fix is now turning into a huge pain in the ass. It had been exciting at first to fix up the old motor but with every passing day, Mickey can’t wait to rid his hands of the thing.

“Fuck you man, I’m average,” he argues, sliding out from underneath the car and rolling his shoulders with a wince as he stands. His hands are blackened with grease, dirt clogging his fingernails and Mickey knows he’s touched his face a number of times today and can only imagine the state he looks right now. He’s probably not far off the way he looked when he was a dirty teenager, so often was the water bill not paid that Mickey just had to get used to being caked in filth, wearing the dirt proudly to signify that the Milkovich’s didn’t give a fuck.

“Average for a chick maybe,” Jon counters with a smirk, appearing from the other side of the car. Out of everyone, Mickey despises him the most for the mere act of having a few extra inches on him. Knowing the next however many minutes of his life are about to be spent trying not to pick a fight with the guy, Mickey grits his teeth and rubs what amount of grease he can from his hands with an old towel resting on the bonnet.

“Yeah, real fucking hilarious Jonny,” he mutters.

“Brewhouse tonight boys?” Dario suggests, following after Jon, “Happy hour until 9.”

“Why not,” Benny agrees, “I’m done looking at this piece of shit, I need a drink, man.”

As it happens, Mickey agrees, his need for a beer outweighing his lack of a desire to listen to Jon’s wise ass remarks all night. He likes Benny and can tolerate Dario. It’s the closest thing he’s ever had to a group of friends at least.

The Brewhouse is busier than usual when they arrive and it doesn’t take long to see why. There’s a band setting up in the corner, right underneath the tacky neon sign spelling out _Dandy’s_ in bright glowing red letters. The place is filled with a vibrant hum of youthful expectation. They’re a local group by the looks of it but with a small yet loyal fanbase out to hear them play for the night.

Their usual booth is taken, but Benny manages to flag a group who appear to be leaving and they sit swiftly, claiming the seat and placing their identical beers on the table.

The band finish up with their last few mic checks and introduce themselves as _Shotgun Shore._ Mickey rolls his eyes at the ridiculous name and wonders what real experience these yuppies have with any kind of firearms. Judging by the way they’re dressed – one of them is wearing a fucking bowtie – he guesses at not a lot but is at least grateful that he’s excused from having to partake in too much obnoxious conversation as he takes his first tip of his drink and listens to their opening number with little expectation.

They’re okay, nothing special, but easy enough to listen to, the group opting to play primarily cover songs with just a handful of original music, so Mickey is at least familiar with some of what they play.

It’s almost nice, Mickey decides after a few songs. It feels so close to normal that he can almost believe it for a moment.

His phone vibrates after they finish a frankly average Bruce Springsteen cover and the bar fills with applause. Mickey frowns seeing that it’s from Ian and promptly open the message, glancing at the rest of his group to ensure his attention won’t be missed.

_(20:39) I was willing to give them a chance but who covers The River and leaves out the harmonica solo?_

Mickey’s eyes shoot up in a panic, rapidly scanning the small crowd looking for Ian, teeth gnawing at the inside of his lower lip as he searches. He finds him leaning against the bar, his phone in one hand as he gazes subtly at Mickey’s table.

He offers Mickey a private smile, spreading from one corner of his mouth and raising an eyebrow suggestively.

Mickey swallows heavily, heart pounding at the sheer proximity of the two sides of his life he’s so far carefully spent keeping apart.

But Ian doesn’t push his luck, he puts his phone away and returns his attention to the band who’re now playing the opening chords of their next cover, the ghost of his smile still teasing against Ian’s mouth as he brings his drink to his lips.

Mickey breathes, feeling like he might actually be able to trust Gallagher to just be cool. He spends the next song darting his attention between the stage and Ian just to be sure, heartbeat returning to normal when Ian does nothing but tap his foot to the beat of the song.

Dario starts to sing along badly to the cover of _Free Fallin’_ and Mickey’s attention is diverted back to the booth where the rest of the guys are ripping into him for it and rightfully so, the guys on stage might not be the best Mickey has heard but they can at least hit a note now and then.

It’s enough of a distraction that when the song ends and Mickey’s attention lands once more back to Ian’s vicinity, another person has joined him and his heart stops dead.

Fuck.

Mandy.

As if being able to sense his instant distress, Mandy glances over at the worst moment. Her eyes land on her brother, recognition blooms and within seconds she’s tugging on Ian’s sleeve and dragging him over to the table as the _Shotgun Fuckers_ or whatever announce that they’re taking a short break.

“Fuck,” he says audibly, gaining the attention of the group. He’s saved from having to explain himself though when Benny spots the approaching pair.

“Hey Mandy, it’s been too long,” he says, standing so he can greet her with a friendly hug. Mickey’s stomach curdles as Benny leaves just a little bit more room on the bench when he takes a seat again, inviting Mandy to join them.

“You can blame Dickbreath here for that,” she snarks, offering her brother a customary glare.

The others snicker at the remark and Mickey forces down his irritation with gritted teeth, knowing it’s just a taunt; nothing that anyone would have reason to take seriously but he hates her for saying it all the same, feeling the betrayal deep within.

Mandy wastes no time taking up the space beside Benny. No matter how many times Mickey has told her that Benny is in fact in a long term committed relationship and all that shit, Mandy still insists on hitting on him whenever they meet, which Mickey strives to keep to minimum for that very reason. Whether he simply doesn’t know any better or is merely being polite for Mickey’s sake, Benny never bats an eyelid to her advances, much to Mickey’s annoyance whenever he has to sit and watch the whole charade.

“Move the fuck over,” Mandy demands, redirecting her attention from Benny to offer another pointed stare, reminding Mickey of Ian’s existence and adding to the concoction of everything else that has turned to shit in the last five minutes.

Begrudgingly, he moves over, refusing to look at the other man who, suddenly the centre of attention, quickly takes a seat besides Mickey. He can feel the press of Ian’s leg against his own as he keeps his eyes trained ahead.

“This is Ian,” Mandy introduces to the group, “Ian you’ve met my piece of shit brother, these are his friends.”

While _friends_ is a loose term to describe what exactly Dario and Jon are to him, mickey doesn’t protest the statement.

“Nice to meet you,” Ian say courteously, ever the fucking charmer while Mickey stares at his glass and wishing it were empty enough to warrant going to the bar for another just to get himself out of the situation. Mandy is happily absorbed in conversation with Benny, leaving him to babysit Gallagher.

Dario and Jon pay little attention beyond a swift nod of acknowledgement and a half-hearted “what’s up,” sent in Ian’s direction before they return to their own imbecilic game of rating the barmaids. Inevitably, this leaves Ian and Mickey sat far too close for comfort while a distinct silence hangs above them both. Mickey stares straight ahead toward the stage, wishing those dad-rock obsessed assholes would come back and play something just to break the tension that’s mounting.

“What do you think of the band?” Ian eventually asks, the echoing silence clearly getting to him.

“I think nobody under the age of seventy should be allowed to wear a fucking bowtie and not get their ass kicked but they’re whatever, I guess.”

Ian laughs, careful to keep it casual as his hand slides to his drink, thumb swiping at the condensation on the glass before raising it to his lips.

Ian isn’t drinking again, Mickey can’t help but notice and wonder at the fact that it feels like a piece of the puzzle is missing when it comes to him. It’s not like he would have driven here which wouldn’t stop most people Mickey knows from having a few beers anyway. But there’s something about it, something in the way he cradles the glass, like he’s concealing something hiding in plain sight. 

“’Zat fucking cranberry juice, man?” Jon pipes up with amusement, nodding at Ian’s glass and knocking Mickey from his thoughts. “You got a UTI or something?” The man laughs at his own joke with a little too much enthusiasm as Ian shifts uncomfortably. Even Dario cracks a smirk.

“Jesus, shut the fuck up,” Mickey begs shaking his head as Ian places the glass down on the table self-consciously.

“What’re you drinking fucking chick drinks for, man? Look, even Mickey’s sister has a beer, what’s wrong with you!” It’s said in jest, or at least in Jon’s convoluted form of a joke, but Mickey feels the way Ian’s muscles stiffen beside him as he plasters on a fake smile.

“Let’s get some fucking shots, get this party going!” Dario announces with a stupid grin, using the situation as an excuse to call over the pretty barmaid he’d been drooling over all night and order tequila shots for the table.

“It’s hardly a fucking party,” Mickey mumbles in unison with the whole table, minus Jon, who are also voicing their protests but the barmaid has already retreated to pour their drinks.

“It’s a fucking Sunday, man,” Benny protests, “We got work tomorrow.”

“What the fuck ever,” Jon pipes up, “Me and D’ll do ‘em all if you’re gonna be a bunch of faggots about it.”

Ian clears his throat none too discreetly as he picks up his cranberry juice and avoids looking at the group. Mickey catches Mandy mouth a subtle apology in his direction but nobody’s attention is brought to the matter.

It doesn’t fucking matter anyway, it’s just word. Nothing Mickey hasn’t heard before and he would guess Ian has heard worse still.

When the drinks come and are passed around, Mandy wordlessly takes Ian’s lining it up next to her own, Ian silently thanking her with her eyes. Mickey doesn’t get it. It’s not like the he’s teetotal or anything, he got fucking drunk with the guy just a couple nights ago so he doesn’t see what the big deal is.

He doesn’t exactly give a shit though, unlike Jon who has an unlikeable tendency to have a pissing contest with anyone he deems an easy target.

“Seriously man?” he says, noticing Ian willingly sacrificing his shot, “You got a purse to go with that vagina? Don’t be such a fag.” Jon teases and there’s that word again. Mickey hears it nearly every goddamn day at work but can practically feel the way Ian bristles before turning fully with his shoulders to face Jon. His face serious and confrontational and Mickey knows without a doubt that this isn’t going to end pretty. He can feel the control slipping though, knows he’s powerless to intervene lest he appear to be taking anyone’s side in the matter, something he knows he can’t afford while carefully tiptoeing the tightrope.

“You got a problem with fags?” Ian demands challengingly. Mickey glares at him, silently willing him to not start shit but from what little Mickey knows about him so far, Ian isn’t the type of guy to back down.

“What the fuck is this guy talking about?” Jon stumbles, clearly not expecting that question in particular.

“I _said_ do you have a problem with fags?” Ian repeats his fists clenching as realisation dawns on Jon’s face alongside a sick sense of amusement.

“Wait, are you seriously a fucking queer or something?”

“Yeah, you wanna get your ass beat by one, tough guy?” Ian stands, and Mickey decides it time to step in, rising to his feet and placing a warning hand against Ian’s chest lest they get kicked out of the only decent bar in this neighbourhood.

“Jesus man, I was just making a fucking joke,” Jon spits, an edge of disgust clouding his features.

“Let’s just go,” Mandy decides, giving Mickey a hearty glare as she leaves as though any of this was his fucking fault.

“What a fucking drama queen,” Jon says, looking around what remains of the group for support and finding very little. No one says a word, the tension mounting as the band return to the stage, ready for the second set.

Mickey picks up his tequila shot and downs it swiftly before leaving without a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments mean the world to me so a big thank you to those who have left such lovely words!


	6. Chapter 6

**(07:06) Sorry. I guess.**

Mickey lays in bed and stares at the text, regretting it the moment he hits send and the little grey tick appears to confirm that it has been received. He doesn’t know why he typed out the message in the first place, but he’d woken with a heavy pit in his chest and figured that he should at least acknowledge that what happened was shitty. 

Mandy was pissed at him when she got home last night. He doesn’t know where exactly she went with Ian after they’d left the Brewhouse but Mickey had opted to head straight home and drink beer alone on the sofa instead of spend another minute with Jon’s wise ass remarks and utterly detestable look of innocence whenever someone called him out on his bullshit.

“You could have said something,” Mandy had accused with a vicious snarl, stalking over to Mickey after slamming the door closed. “They’re _your_ friends.” And she’d enunciated the statement with a violent jab to Mickey’s chest after getting all up in his space. He was just about done with getting the blame for every little goddamn thing.

“Who the fuck cares, it’s just guy talk alright, he didn’t mean shit by it, Jon just talks outta his ass.”

“Guy talk? Are you fucking serious, fucking _guy talk_. Why don’t you grow a fucking spinal cord Mickey and tell your _friend_ he’s an asshole!”

“Why the fuck is this my fucking fault?” Mickey had fumed. “I didn’t ask you to come over but you had to get in my fucking business like always.”

“Fuck you, Mickey,” Mandy had growled, almost disbelievingly, before storming to her bedroom.

Now, Mickey drops the phone back onto his side table and gets ready for work.

The shop is quiet when he arrives. He’s early, so he heads to the break room to grab some coffee before he gets his hands dirty.

Benny is sitting at the flimsy plastic table, scribbling crossword answers into his newspaper and glancing up when Mickey closes the door behind him.

“Morning,” Benny greets as Mickey heads to the coffee machine. The shit the company coffee machine spits out is hardly an Italian fucking roast but it keeps him from going completely crazy with the dull monotony that comes with having a job. Model fucking citizen and all that bullshit.

At least it isn’t fucking decaf, Mickey thinks, his stomach curdling when he realises why that thought in particular crops into his mind.

Fucking Gallagher and his fucking shitty coffee and bad timing.

“What’s up,” Mickey mumbles, taking a seat opposite Benny and casting a glance at the puzzle. He’s okay with words, but Benny likes to do those fucking impossible cryptic crosswords that make Mickey’s head hurt.

“ _A prosecutor performs while holding a sheep_ ,” Benny reads, glancing at Mickey as though he could be of any help whatsoever. He just doesn’t get that shit, doesn’t understand how a sentence made up of utter gibberish can somehow be the clue to a bigger picture. Nor does he get how solving them can be any kind of fun whatsoever.

But Benny susses it almost instantly, scribbling the word into the boxes as he announces the answer as though it were obvious “drama!”

“How the fuck?” Mickey begs, running the clue through his mind again. It’s too early for this shit.

“Just think about it,” Benny instructs as he begins to explain, moving the newspaper closer to Mickey and underlining several words from the clue. “ _Perform_ is the key word here. Then we have a _prosecutor_ , that could be a district attorney or a DA. A ram is another word for the _sheep_. The DA is holding the ram, so we put the D and the A on either side of RAM to get drama.”

Mickey gets lost almost instantly, staring at Benny incredulously as he finishes explaining.

“How the fuck is anyone supposed to solve this shit?”

“You just gotta learn to think different. Figure out where the hidden meaning is then it’s easy,” Benny says jovially, ever the fucking optimist as he twirls his pen between his fingers.

“Jesus, as if life isn’t already fucking complicated enough.”

“That’s because you haven’t figured out how to read the clues yet.”

Mickey pauses, his cup suspended halfway to his mouth and a look of frustrated confusion carved into his face.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Benny gives him a knowing look then and Mickey frowns, placing his shit coffee on the table before demanding once more with little patience, “What?”

“Nothing,” Benny decides with a shake of his head as he pulls the newspaper back towards him, returning his gaze to the puzzle then adding, “Mandy’s friend seems decent.”

Mickey’s eyes darken. There’s no fucking way.

“So fucking what?” he begs in as neutral a tone as he can muster despite the way his heart pounds. He watches as Benny shrugs, eyes glancing across the next riddle in the crossword.

“Nothing,” he says, eyes never leaving the page, “just making an observation.”

“The fuck are you getting at?” Mickey demands carefully, mind racing to grapple with what he could possible know.

And how.

Benny sighs and closes his newspaper, directing his attention fully to Mickey.

“Like I said, all I do is read the clues, man,” he finishes cryptically, closing his newspaper and heading out to the shop and leaving Mickey alone with his racing thoughts.

He runs through last night in his mind, there’s no fucking way, Mickey had hardly said a fucking word to Gallagher, how the fuck could Benny know anything?

The only scrap relief comes from the fact that it’s _Benny_ though, and out of everyone in this shitty repair shop, Benny is at least the one he can trust, although that doesn’t mean the feeling comes naturally to him.

Mickey stays mostly silent for the morning, getting his hands dirty and working in solitude on various odd jobs. Reynolds is taking care of the paint job on the new Chevy today and Mickey’s glad for a break from the decrepit lump of rust.

He forgets about the text he’d sent that morning until lunch, pulling his phone out to pass the time with while he eats his sandwich, only to find he has an unread message from Ian.

_(10:08) It’s cool._

And that’s it. It’s cool. It’s fucking cool and Mickey doesn’t know where to go from here, what to do with _it’s cool_ as he taps out an instinctive reply and watches the brief response join the message chain on the screen.

**(13:02) k**

With fingers hovering over the keypad, Mickey wonders if he should say more. He’s never navigated a situation like this, never actually felt the guilt that comes with someone being unhappy with him. Except guilt isn’t quite the right word for it. Mickey doesn’t feel _guilty_ but he feels…something. All he knows is that he doesn’t like it and the sooner he can rid himself of the headache it’s causing the better.

As Mickey is still trying to decide if he should say something more, he’s relieved of the decision when his phone buzzes once again in his hand.

_(13:02) I’m gonna assume you’re still in the closet at work?_

Eyes scanning the message, Mickey bites his lip as he instinctively looks towards the door, feeling exposed and like eyes are on him constantly when he’s here. He remembers what Benny had said to him this morning and hates the way he feels like he’s losing control, let he can’t just keep a lid on his goddamn personal life.

**(13:03) not in the closet. just don’t talk about that shit**

He types out a reply hurriedly and locks his phone, picking up his sandwich and taking a bite. The moment lasts all of a couple of seconds before Mickey’s phone, face down on the table, vibrates again with another text. Rolling his eyes, he picks it up again with one hand.

_(13:03) So…they do know you’re gay?_

Guess they’re having that conversation then.

**(13:05) fuck no**

_(13:05) …I’m confused._

**(13:06) it’s not fucking rocket science Gallagher. I don’t talk about my shit with the assholes I work with. who gives a shit**

_(13:06) Okay, just so I’m up to speed. Your friends don’t know you like dick. Mandy however does know you like dick but doesn’t know you like MY dick. Anything else I’m forgetting?_

Mickey hates the fact that he can almost _see_ the shit-eating grin that must be on Gallagher’s face right now.

**(13:06) The fact that you ARE a dick?**

He can see that Ian is typing and feels a lightness in his stomach as he waits for his reply, his sandwich laying discarded and forgotten on the table as he actually fucking sits there and _waits for a reply._

But then the door to the break room slams open as Jon and Dario enter the tiny kitchen, laughing at whatever stupid shit they’re tiny brains find amusing. At lightning speed, he locks his phone and places it face down on the table, feeling as though his entire body has been jerked back into the present, back into reality and the world he’s forced to live in.

Once again he’s struck with the reminder of what Benny had hinted at this morning, the smallest inclination that he knows _something_ and a momentary instance of sheer panic grips at his heart. The only saving grace for him right now is the concrete knowledge that these two assholes aren’t half as observant or intuitive as Benny is and Mickey forces himself to breathe again.

“What’s up Mickey Mouse,” Jon taunts ruffling Mickey’s hair as he passes him on his way to the fridge.

“You touch me again and I’ll break your fucking hands,” Mickey seethes, jerking out of Jon’s reach. With the sudden need to do something with his hands, Mickey reaches was again for his sandwich, biting into it moodily.

“Well, isn’t someone feeling precious today?” Jon laughs as he strolls to the counter to pour himself some coffee while Dario snickers beside him. “Got any bite to go with that bark?”

“Fuck you.”

Mickey would love nothing more than to knock the guy out but he kind of needs this job.

He settles for ignoring him, feeling like a dog on a leash when his phone vibrates on the table with another text, most likely Ian’s obnoxious reply. He ignores it. He ignores Jon and Dario’s pointless chatter. He ignores everything.

The phone buzzes again, and then a third time in succession and Mickey rolls his eyes, grabs the device if only to silence it, a tightness creeping into his lungs at the fact that Ian is already this goddamn _comfortable._

“Who’s blowing up your phone man?” Dario asks as he sits opposite. “Only time I’m that popular is when some desperate chick is on my ass.”

“Or when I’ve pissed one off,” Jon adds. It’s said as though he deserves some kind of reward for the fact and Mickey is just tired of this shit. Tired of the false bravado and the fucking jock culture that, being in their late 20s, they should have grown out of by now.

He says nothing, lets them believe whatever the fuck they want to believe, as long as they remain miles away from the truth.

* * *

It’s a few days later when Mickey is making his way home from his new gym, regretting the decision to walk when the heavens open with a thundering crash. Having finally found a new place to work out, one that most importantly doesn’t charge through the roof simply for the pleasure of owning a fancy membership card, Mickey wonders if it’s really worth it to travel half way across town for, taking up a sizeable chunk of his day off.

Right now, it definitely feels like a lose-lose situation.

The sky had been a dark threatening grey for most of the afternoon, and Mickey had hoped he’d get away with it with a quickened pace as he’d left. He’s stubborn enough to not want to fork out extra to get the L, which would thus defeat the purpose of finding a cheaper place to train.

The sky rumbles angrily above but, accounting to the fact that it’s July and temperatures are still sweltering, Mickey is only wearing a vest, which quickly becomes littered with dark, wet spots as the rainfall becomes heavier.

Muttering to himself, he quickly finds shelter underneath a canopy adorning some greasy diner just as the downpour reaches a crescendo. Deciding he could spend a while waiting it out, Mickey lights a cigarette, shielding the flame of the lighter from the weather as he sucks in a lungful of nicotine.

With an exhale of smoke, he watches as people scatter about like wayward ants. Some significantly more prepared individuals are putting up umbrellas while others hope to keep dry with an optimistic newspaper held above their heads as they hurry to wherever their destinations may be.

“You planning on entering a wet t-shirt contest or something?” A voice says beside him and Mickey practically jumps right out of his skin at seeing Gallagher, of all the fucking people in Chicago, poking his head outside the door of the diner. “Sorry!” Ian says with clear amusement, “didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Fucking startled me my ass,” Mickey grumbles, his heartbeat returning to a normal rate as he takes a look at Ian wearing an uncharacteristically plain grey shirt. “You really are fucking stalking me, aren’t you, Gallagher?”

“Considering this is where I work, I could say the same to you,” Ian counters. It’s then that Mickey notices the apron, frowning as he takes in the other man properly and wondering if this is in fact the same Ian Gallagher he knows. “Come on,” Ian continues with a jerk of his head, “we got warm coffee inside. No decaf, I promise.” Mickey considers for a moment before reluctantly pushing himself off the brick wall and following after Ian. The rain had only begun to get heavier anyway, a stream of water rippling across the sidewalk and wetting his shoes. What exactly does he have to lose?

“The fuck you mean, you work here?” Mickey demands as he trails Ian. The diner isn’t all that busy, but a steady crowd of customers supply the healthy buzz of a community hub. Ian walks behind the counter, glancing over his shoulder at Mickey with amusement as he sits on one of the stools and rests his elbows on the counter.

“It’s called a job? I perform labour in exchange for money,” Ian explains flippantly, sliding a cup in front of Mickey and grabbing the coffee pot.

“Yeah, yeah, wiseass. I mean I thought you, like, danced and shit.” Mickey waits until Ian has filled the cup before bringing it close and taking a sip.

It aint great but it’s not decaf at least.

“I do _dance and shit,_ ” Ian confirms

“Then what the fuck are you doing here, then?” Mickey doesn’t know why what he’s asking is such a difficult fucking question.

“Mickey, I teach a two-hour class four times a week. How much do you think I get paid for that exactly?” Ian asks with amusement.

“So, you’re telling me you used let a bunch of old dudes cup your balls for cash so you could pay for some dipshit dance school and you can’t even get a decent paying job out of it?”

Ian’s eyes widen as Mickey recognised the familiar feeling of having crossed a line.

“Ouch,” he says simply.

Mickey sighs, refusing to feel guilty, though Ian doesn’t look too seriously offended.

“So what d’you here then? Handstands on tabletops and shit? You balance plates on your toes?”

“I went to dance school, Mickey. Not clown school.”

“Same thing, right?” Mickey says with a wicked smile.

Ian looks like he has an equally as sarcastic reply up his sleeve and is halfway to saying it when a bright flash illuminates the sky outside, followed by a loud crack of thunder.

“Jesus, it’s really coming down out there.”

“Out-fucking-standing,” Mickey groans, wondering how long exactly he’s going to be stranded here. Ian seems to have the same idea as he turns back towards Mickey.

“Hey, you want something to eat?”

Mickey considers for a moment. The fact that he is pretty hungry paired with the acceptance that he’s clearly going to have to stick around for a while makes the decision for him.

“What’s good?” he asks, sending Ian into a clearly rehearsed spiel of the menu which Mickey barely pays any attention to. He could essentially sum up each item on the menu as some variation of a heart attack served up on a plate with fries.

“Honestly though?” Ian adds once he’s finished, in a conspiratorial tone as though Mickey is the only person privy to the information and not like it’s right there on the menu under the specials, “I’d go with the bacon patty melt.”

“Whatever, s’long as it’s edible.”

“I’ll get the kitchen on it,” Ian promises, slinging a dish towel over his shoulder and finding a waitress to punch in the order before disappearing into the kitchen. Mickey watches him go, wondering why exactly Ian looks so out of place here. For one, he’s probably the only one who doesn’t seem like they don’t want to be here, and Mickey wonders with uncertainty if there’s a reason for that.

Feeling now reluctantly the loss of having someone to talk to, Mickey becomes very much aware of the fact that he’s alone, fidgeting uncomfortably as he glances around the place. It really is nothing special, he thinks as he nurses his coffee. The place looks like it has been recently dressed up, a splash of paint and some new covers on the seat cushions bring a bit of colour to the place but the cracked tiles on the walls, and the dusty old jukebox sitting unused in the corner betray the fact that the place has definitely seen better days long, long ago.

“Ian, I need you back in the kitchen by two, okay?” A woman’s voice orders, her voice carrying enough to draw Mickey’s attention to see the brunette eyeing Ian with authority. Mickey smirks as Ian rolls his eyes at her before nodding and carrying two plates over to the counter where Mickey waits.

Two plates.

“If you’re thinking this is some kinda date I’ll kick your ass,” Mickey states, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. It’s greasy and cheesy and fucking delicious, but he’s not about to give Ian the satisfaction of letting him know that.

“I’m thinking this is my lunch break and you’re welcome to sit anywhere else you like, douchebag,” Ian counters, taking the seat beside Mickey and digging in to his fries. At least they’re not facing one another with a fucking candle in between, Mickey supposes.

“That your boss on your ass?”

“I guess,” Ian says with a nod after swallowing his mouthful to confirm, “Is there a word for your boss who’s also your sister, but who’s mostly a control freak pain in the ass? Because she’s that.”

Mickey glances once again at the woman, chatting now to a table to check on their meal. He never would have pinned her as Ian’s sister, there’s a faint familial resemblance now that he really looks but nothing glaringly obvious.

“You work for your sister? That must be fucking rough.”

“I don’t know what’s worse, having your boss act like your older sister or having your older sister act like your boss.”

Mickey sympathises, he doesn’t even want to think about the hell he’d be living in if Mandy had any kind of authority over him like that. He’s certain he’d end up killing her.

“Guess she can’t fire you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Ian says, “she used to seriously bust my ass. There was this whole fucking blow out last year and she was this close fucking firing my ass, but we worked through it. Established some boundaries. It helped a lot when I moved out, that’s for sure.”

“I bet,” he says, though he wonders if he and Mandy would even speak if they didn’t live together.

“Hey, you know I don’t even know what it is you do?” Ian says in a barely disguised attempt to dig deeper into Mickey’s life.

“Why do you care?” The response it automatic, a deflection mechanism Mickey has all but perfected by now. 

“Well, I guess I can just sit here in silence while I eat my burger and stare at the wall? If you’d prefer?” Ian quarrels petulantly.

“I’m a fucking mechanic,” Mickey admits, rolling his eyes at Ian’s dramatic ass. “Fix up cars and shit.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a slowly blooming grin burning across Ian’s lips that Mickey doesn’t like the look of; as though he’s particularly fond of the idea, though why exactly Mickey would rather not guess at. “Nearby?”

“Why, you gonna pay me a fucking visit?”

“You came here, it’s only fair.” And Mickey is only half convinced Ian is joking. “Maybe I’ll swing by one day for a full service,” he says suggestively though Mickey is having none of it.

“Good fucking luck, you don’t even own a fucking car,” he shoots back, ignoring the innuendo.

“You work today?”

“Nah, man. Day off. Just been to the gym.”

“The gym’s on the other side of town, though.”

“Different fucking gym,” Mickey states as though it were obvious because, well isn’t it?

“You’re cheating on my gym?” Ian accuses jokingly.

“Fuck off.”

“LiveBrite isn’t good enough for you anymore? Is that what you’re saying?”

“LiveBrite can eat my ass with the amount they charge just to lift a couple weights.”

Ian eyes him suggestively then and Mickey can tell it’s killing him not the make the comment he _knows_ he wants to. “Don’t fucking go there, man. I’m eating.”

Ian laughs, picking up another one of his fries.

“Honestly, I can’t believe it. Do they even sell kale smoothies as this _other_ place?”

“No, which is the main fucking reason I picked it.”

“Really? Not because it’s across the street from where I work?”

“I didn’t even fucking know you worked here until 5 minutes ago,” Mickey argues back, the accusation hitting him in a way he can’t explain.

“Relax Mickey, I’m obviously fucking with you,” Ian says, laughing.

The bell above the door chimes then, and Mickey glances over instinctively, surprised to find that it’s no longer raining as streaks of sun poke through the clouds. A girl walks in with hair as obnoxious and fiery as Ian’s so it’s barely a surprise to him when she walks directly to where they’re sitting, commanding Ian’s attention immediately.

“Fiona here?” she says with a fierce determination that makes Mickey feel someone grateful that he isn’t Fiona right now.

“Yeah, she should be out back,” Ian confirms and the girl storms angrily towards the door labelled _staff only_. “My little sister, Debbie,” he says to Mickey once she’s left, though Mickey had figured that much out on his own. This one at least shows more of a family resemblance to him. “If me and Fiona don’t always see eye to eye, it’s nothing compared to those two.”

“How many of you fucking Gallaghers are there?” Mickey wonder aloud and Ian chuckles, like the question alone is some kind of inside joke.

“Officially? Six. In reality? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says feeling as though Ian didn’t do a whole lot better than he did on the father lottery.

“You got a big family?”

“Brother, sister and a fuck ton of cousins,” he says, reminding him of the fact that he should probably give Sandy a call some time soon, giving to the fact that she’s the only one out of the lot of them that he can stand. “Things used to get pretty crazy when everyone was around,” he offers. And it did. The scams, the bonfires, the drug runs, it all seems like lifetimes ago now.

“I hear you, Southside crazy is a whole different breed of crazy, right?”

“Right,” Mickey says lightly, wondering if Ian’s idea of crazy even comes _close_ to the Milkovich brand. Mickey’s family owned the empire of crazy back in the day. Back before Terry died, before his cousins scattered and before his family home was turned into a fucking scented candle store.

Mickey is fiddling with a couple of his fries, the dark-tinted nostalgia hitting him hard until the kitchen door slams open, almost knocking a poor waitress on her ass as out come Fiona and Debbie, bickering loudly and commanding the attention of almost everyone in the diner.

“Here we go,” Ian says with little emotion.

“Fiona I _told_ you I would pay you back Monday.”

“And I told you I needed it by Friday,” the girls argue.

“You can’t just _steal_ my purse, I need to buy clothes for Franny.”

“It’s not stealing if it’s my money.”

Fiona gives Ian a look as she all but drags Debbie outside and away from paying customers who are all eager for a front row seat to the show.

“I think I gotta get back to work,” he says reluctantly, placing one last fry into his mouth before standing and taking his plate with him. “You free tomorrow night?” Mickey glances towards him for no other reason other than to confirm that he’s asking what he knows he is.

“Sure,” he confirms, earning him a fond grin as Ian leaves him to finish his lunch alone. There are only a few bites left though, and Mickey doesn’t feel much like sticking around now that he finds himself alone so, digging through his wallet, he leaves a handful of bills on the counter before finally heading home.

* * *

As much as he’s loathed to admit it. Mickey might actually like kissing.

The fact makes him feel like a fucking pussy when the thought strikes, with Ian deep inside him and lips hungrily attached to his own. Ian’s arms are tensed, holding him firmly in place and it’s all so overwhelming in the best possible way. Mickey’s every sense is engulfed, wrapped up in everything that is here and now and _this_ , removing any chance for outside thoughts to intrude and take away from the approaching climax.

He’s on his back, a position still relatively new to him. When Mickey had first started experimenting, he would barely make eye contact with whichever opportune stranger he’d manage to seek out, determined to keep that distance, determined to hide from himself by refusing to look his sexuality in it’s very real and human face. He’d tried it only once before Ian and was immediately put off by the desperate look on the guy’s face as he came closer to orgasm.

But this, this is spectacular.

Ian’s mouth is still on him as he comes, brain fogged and hazy as the room blurs out of focus and Mickey can think of nothing but the way his chest heaves as Ian’s body collapses onto his, warm and weighted.

Mickey lets his head drop to the pillow, eyes closed as he controls his breathing, Ian doing the same with a head nestled into Mickey’s shoulder until he eventually rolls off. On his back besides Mickey, Ian stretches his arms above his head, arching his back and making an exaggerated show of himself before heading to the kitchenette.

Mickey sits up and proceeds to locate his boxers, mixed amongst the pile of clothes littered upon the floor by Ian’s bed.

Ian returns as he’s pulling them up and tosses a bottle of a water onto the bed, uncapping a bottle of his own and taking a long gulp.

Ian shrugs in response to Mickey’s questioning look.

“Gotta stay hydrated,” he states, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Uh huh,” Mickey grumbles, paying him no attention as he tugs a shirt on, ignoring the extra bottle as it lays concealed within the mess of sheets. “You gonna put some fucking clothes on or what?” Ian’s still significantly naked in front of him and seemingly has no plans on getting dressed. Unsurprisingly, he shrugs once again.

“It’s my fucking apartment.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and continues to dress until Ian concedes and eventually pulls on a pair of boxers before sitting on the rumpled bedsheets.

“You leaving?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey mumbles, sitting on the edge of the bed and tugging his shoes on. “Got work tomorrow.”

“So?”

“So? I don’t got time to drag my ass back home at fuck you o’clock to get changed.”

“Alright,” Ian says, accepting the excuse, “but, before you go, I gotta tell you something.”

Mickey stops in his tracks, the laces on his boots left abandoned as he glances over his shoulder at Ian sitting cross legged on the bed, looking into his lap.

“What?” Mickey asks slowly and Ian’s eyes shoot up to meet his, wide and annoyingly innocent looking.

“It’s nothing _bad_ ,” Ian corrects though it hardly puts Mickey at ease at all.

“Spit it out, Gallagher,” he orders, heart pounding.

“No, really,” Ian says, seemingly realising the alarm in Mickey’s voice, “It’s nothing to be worried about.”

“Would you just fucking tell me instead of being a cryptic asshole all the goddamn time?”

“I saw Mandy, today,” Ian admits, as though that in itself were the big secret. Mickey shakes his head, desperately trying to find the fucking point in this conversation.

“Good for you?”

“And I kinda told her I was seeing someone.” Mickey’s stomach clenches for an instant as the words register, unsure what exactly he’s being told here. “She was trying to set me up with some guy she knows at work,” Ian continues, the words flowing rapidly, “I didn’t know what to tell her so I -”

“Seeing someone?” Mickey interrupts.

“Well, I didn’t know how exactly to put it so -”

“Wait, you’re talking about…about this?” Mickey confirms, “You mentioned _this_ to my sister?”

“It’s not like I told her it was _you_ ,” Ian defends, quelling the storm before Mickey really has a chance to panic. “But I couldn’t think of a good enough reason to get her to back down.”

Mickey rolls his eyes, the feeling of panic subsiding as he turns his attention back to lacing up his shoes.

“Christ Gallagher, you can bang other dudes you know. Who gives a shit,” he grumbles.

Mickey expects a quickfire comeback, like Gallagher is often so inclined to do, but there’s a pause that’s just long enough that Mickey turns back to look at the other man.

Mickey can’t quite read Ian’s expression at first but, in an instant it’s gone, and in its place is that oh so familiar grin that Mickey so often imagines Ian sporting when he’s sending particularly annoying text messages.

“Oh yeah, and where would I find the fucking time, huh?” Ian begs, “Your ass is pretty fucking needy.”

“Ay fuck you,” Mickey retorts though it’s lacking any real scorn.

“What can I say? You show up at my work, you knock on my door every night, it’s a full time job,” Ian counters with a smile, leaning back against the pillows and tapping his hands absently against his abdomen. “I gotta work two jobs _and_ make sure you get fucked on the regular? I can’t take on any more side pieces, Mickey. My schedule is packed tight.”

Mickey responds with a flip of the middle finger, brevity is the soul of wit after all, before returning to his shoelaces.

“What did she say?” he says, bringing them back round to the topic at hand with an even tone. He hears Ian scoff.

“Why do you care?”

“Fucking don’t,” Mickey snaps back, but Ian continues nonetheless.

“She asked if it was serious.” Mickey says nothing, straightening his back and daring to glance at Ian who looks as relaxed as ever, gazing up at the ceiling before turning back to face Mickey. “I said no, obviously, and then she started trying to push this Mark guy on me again so I…improvised.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“I fed her some bullshit that I was really into this guy and I was hoping to turn him round.”

“Why the fuck are you telling me this, man?” Mickey demands with a sigh.

“I don’t know,” is Ian’s simple response, holding Mickey’s gaze for just a moment longer than is comfortable.

“Look, I meant what I said,” Mickey enforces, tearing his eyes away, “If you wanna bang other dudes –”

“I’m not fucking asking you for permission here, Mickey. Just telling you what happened.”

“Right.”

It feels a though they’re left at a stalemate, though what the actual dilemma is exactly, Mickey has no clue. Ian looks almost as if his mind is elsewhere and for a flicker of a moment, Mickey wonders if he actually is considering banging this friend of Mandy’s.

But then he shifts, eyes once again landing on Mickey, turned awkwardly towards Ian from where he still sits on the bed, as though awaiting permission to end this disaster of a conversation.

“Hey,” Ian says, the shift obvious now in his tone before the corner of his mouth tilts upwards. “C’mere.”

“I told you,” Mickey huffs, turning now away from Ian and severing the connection. “I can’t fucking stay,”

“Just…” Ian loses his trail as Mickey turns back to find his eyes still locked onto him, soft with a simple yearning. Mickey somehow finds he doesn’t know how to look away. Ian sits up and in one swift movement locks one hand around the back of Mickey’s neck and pulls their lips together, kissing him softly but purposefully and forcing all of the air from Mickey’s lungs. It captures him entirely off guard, but he doesn’t push away. Instead, he allows himself just that moment of indulgence before he inevitably has to walk away.

As if in the same instant, Ian pulls back, leaving Mickey feeling like he’s stranded on a desert island. On the one hand he needs to go the fuck home, but on the other, fuck the temptation to stay…

But he can’t. He won’t.

Mickey stands, leaving Ian on the bed, his face resigned to Mickey’s departure.

“I gotta get back.”

Ian nods in understanding.

“Sure.”

There’s no recognition of _this was fun_ or any promise of a _see you tomorrow_. It is what it is and everything else is left unsaid as Mickey closes the door behind him, leaving everything that they are safely confined inside Ian’s apartment.

* * *

A few days later, Mickey packs a shirt.

It sits at the bottom of his bag, unassuming. It’s just a fucking shirt, and Mickey tells himself it’s for sheer convenience alone; he’d been growing steadily more exhausted with the string of late nights and Ian lives closer to the shop than he does so in every logical way, it makes sense.

It doesn’t mean a fucking thing.

He doesn’t mention it to Ian when he arrives at his place though, what would he even fucking say anyway? But the fact is clear, unspoken, in the way that Mickey doesn’t immediately rush to dress himself after they’ve both come down, how he gives himself a moment to smile blissfully up at the ceiling above.

Ian smiles, gives him that _look_ that Mickey can’t stand when he gets up to grab himself some water and the realisation sets in that Mickey has yet to move. He doesn’t know why it’s a big deal, it’s not even as though it’s the first time Mickey has stayed over, though it is the first time he’s made the conscious predetermined decision to do so.

“We’re not having a girly fucking sleepover, man. You just happened to live 10 minutes from where I work.”

“So, you’re not gonna let me paint your toenails?” Ian says, his face all innocence and Mickey laughs, becoming somewhat more accustomed to Ian’s lame ass sense of humour.

It takes barely a half hour before Ian is on him again, and Mickey discovers the other benefit of not leaving right after.

In the morning, Mickey wakes to find himself alone in bed, Ian already up and dressed.

He checks his phone for the time, awake now with a jolt of dread at the assumption that he’d slept through his alarm but finds that it’s barely past seven in the morning. He sinks back into the pillows, eyes closed as he listens to Ian’s fumbling around in the kitchen, although there’s no real sense that he’s going to get back to sleep. The sun is already up, filtering brightly though the curtains and Ian isn’t being particularly quiet.

“The fuck are you doing,” he groans from the bed.

Ian pokes his head from the kitchen, discovering that Mickey is now awake.

“Morning,” he says, sans any kind of apology for the racket he had been making.

“Unfortunately.”

“You want something to eat before work?” Ian asks, abuzz with an energy that seems foreign even on Ian.

It’s probably a good idea to say yes, Mickey has a habit of being in a particularly foul mood when he combines being awoken suddenly with having not eaten anything.

“Whatever,” he acquiesces, forcing himself from the bed. “Where the fuck do you get all your energy this time in the fucking morning, man?” It seems as though the question itself seems to zap whatever is possessing him right from his body and Ian immediately stills.

“Sorry,” he says quietly making Mickey feel once again like he’d done something wrong. But this isn’t like Ian, jittery and unsettled in himself. The guy is full of energy sure but never does it feel this out of control.

He rubs a hand over his face, resting his elbows on his knees before pushing himself up.

“You okay?” He asks, the words feeling foreign on his tongue as he steps towards the tiny kitchen space.

Ian peeks over his shoulder giving Mickey a less than reassuring smile and a tight “Mm hmm,” as his response.

Mickey pours himself a cup from the pot of coffee Ian must have made up earlier that morning. If it didn’t taste like dirt and gave away the fact that it’s decaf, Mickey would guess Ian was on some kind of caffeine high or something.

“You making fucking pancakes?”

“Waffles,” Ian corrects, pulling a waffle iron from the cupboard. “My sister bought me this as a housewarming gift but I’ve never actually used it.”

“So, you thought now would be the perfect opportunity to? At 7am when we both got work?”

“Actually, I took today off,” Ian says, stirring the mixture, “got something on today.”

“What?” Mickey presses, unable to ignore the feeling that something is off, despite the fact that he’s probably just being paranoid. What exactly does he even have to go off here? The fact that Ian woke up early and is making waffles?

“Just an audition.”

“Right,” Mickey says. He remembers vaguely a mention of an audition recently but has very little to put forward in terms of an opinion on the fact. At least Ian’s behaviour makes more sense now, Mickey figures it’s probably a big deal if it’s got the guy this nervous.

Ian looks at him then, bowl at the ready to pour into the waffle iron.

“What?” Mickey begs.

“You know most people would say good luck or break a leg or something.”

“Alright, whatever, break everybody’s legs,” he says with a shrug.

“That’s what it -”

“Yeah, I know what it means, jackass,” Mickey interrupts with a roll of his eyes, “aint gotta get a degree from clown school to know that.”

Ian blows out a breath.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice a touch more even now, “just nervous. Guess I’m trying to keep myself distracted,” He nods to the waffle iron to emphasise his point. “Could hardly sleep last night.”

Leaning against the counter Mickey watches as Ian fumbles with the machine.

“Should’ve said, man. I’d have got the fuck outta your way.”

“No,” Ian argues back quickly, “I mean, you were a pretty decent distraction yourself. I’d have spent all evening driving myself crazy otherwise.”

“What’s it for?” Mickey lets curiosity get the better of him. He could write just about everything he knows about the industry and the audition process on the inside of his little finger so he doesn’t have much of a clue about what exactly this audition means.

“It’s not even that big of a deal,” Ian dismisses, “It’s an open call for back up dancers to feature in some music video they’re filming in Chicago. Probably some shitty unheard-of artist but it’s real gig. Chances like this don’t come up a whole lot around here.”

“Sounds like a pretty big deal to me, think you’ll get it?” Mickey asks, almost as though he gives a shit.

“No.”

“Then what do you got to be nervous for then, huh?”

Ian seemingly has no response to that, standing in his kitchen with his mouth hanging open, as though waiting for a response to manifest.

Mickey raises his eyebrows in a checkmate. “I’m gonna go take a shower, try not to burn the fucking place down,” he says with a nod to the waffle iron, now emitting an alarming amount of smoke.

“Shit,” Ian hisses as Mickey leaves him to the blackened mess.

He emerges ten minutes later, clean shirt and wet hair and with the unsettling feeling of smelling like _Ian_.

They eat misshapen waffles in mostly silence. Mickey can’t remember the last time he had warm home make breakfast before work and it’s a treat he allows himself to enjoy.

As for Ian, he seems to calm himself down somewhat and Mickey is glad, unsure if he’d be able to tolerate his jittery ass for much longer. But also he lets himself feel relieved, now that the alarm bells of something _wrong_ have ceased ringing.

When Mickey drops his plate in the sink and reaches for his bag left discarded on the bed, Ian quickly catches onto his intentions to leave and follows him to the door.

“Hey,” Mickey says as he departs with one final word. “Don’t fuck it up, alright?”

With a smirk, Ian commits to the promise.

* * *

Ian stays on his mind during his shift. The urge to text him to ask how the audition went lingers for most of the day but Mickey doesn’t even know what time it was supposed to be happening, or if he’s done with it already.

That’s aside from the fact that he’s not supposed to give a shit, isn’t supposed to be getting involved. The last thing he needs is to come across as some kind of needy little bitch.

But he’d be lying if he said he didn’t hope Ian nailed it.

He doesn’t say much to Benny, hasn’t for most of the week in fact. The disturbing feeling remains nestled in his stomach as it has for the last couple of days while Mickey works, plagued with the unshakeable knowledge that Benny has somehow managed to figure out at least part of what’s going on in Mickey’s private life. It makes igniting a conversation low on his list of priorities for one thing.

There shouldn’t be a reason he can’t tell Benny, but talking about it, acknowledging the fact that he’s got a _thing_ going – as vague and undefinable as Mickey is determined to keep it – somehow makes it more real than he’d ever intended for it to be. It feels like speaking something into existence that ordinarily should have no place in Mickey’s world.

Benny, for what it’s worth, doesn’t push the matter, nor does he acknowledge Mickey’s self-imposed gag order and Mickey appreciates the fact that the guy doesn’t demand to worm his way into every crevice of his life like others might. It makes trusting him easier at least. Makes him feel like maybe eventually he can open up to Benny to let him know that yeah, maybe he likes whatever he’s got going on right now.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be that hard.

He doesn’t hear from Ian all day, and by the time Mickey gets back home, ignoring Mandy’s interrogations of where he was last night, he wonders again if should text him, ask how it went. But, knowing Gallagher, Mickey is certain he’d have texted him already if it was good news.

He leaves it.

A couple more days go by and Mickey’s stubbornness, for reasons he isn’t even entirely sure of any more, prevent him from sending Ian the simple fucking question. On more than one occasion he gets so far as far as typing out a short _hey_ but ends up hitting the backspace almost instantaneously, pocketing his phone and forcing the whole thing from his mind.

So he sits in limbo, letting the days pass by with no word. Nothing.

He’s almost worried.

The thought crosses his mind once again to just send him that simple fucking _hey_ as Mickey is hauling himself up the stairs to his apartment after work, berating himself for being such a goddamn pussy about it.

Mandy is speaking loudly on the phone when he pushes the front the door open. She’s sat at the kitchen counter, fork scratching idly against the empty plate before her in a way that had Mickey already pissed at her.

“I just don’t know why you won’t tell me his _name_ , Ian,” she complains into the phone and Mickey stops short at the realisation of who’s on the other end of the call.

“I know,” she continues after a brief pause where Ian would have said something, “but it’s not like I know the guy, who am I even going to tell about it?”

And they’re talking about _him._ Though of course Mandy can’t be aware of that fact, but it leaves him on edge all the same, like someone is shining a torch into his incredibly messy closet.

Mickey heads to the kitchen, unsure if he even wants to hear any of this despite only having access to half the conversation. He reluctantly lets himself listen, busying himself by putting together a hasty omelette for dinner while Mandy continues on.

“So, you’re dating but _not-dating_ some loser in the closet but you won’t give Mark a chance?” she argues, “I _know_ Ian, but I don’t get it, you told me you were looking for something real. Well Mark’s real.”

Mickey pours the eggs into the pan, feeling his lungs turn to stone.

“Well is he cute at least? You haven’t even told me what he looks like, he’s gotta have _something_ to brag about if you if you’re that into him,” Mandy continues, barely aware that Mickey is even in the room.

In fairness Mickey wonders the same thing, the thought gnawing away ever since he and Ian became a regular…something.

He tunes out the rest of the conversation, finding that when Mandy finally moves on from her pushy interest in who Ian is fucking, he doesn’t give much of a shit about whatever else she has to gossip about. He eats his omelette standing, hardly letting the food cool before he’s placing the last bite into his mouth and rinsing his plate in the sink.

Mandy barely looks up as he leaves the room, the one-sided phone call replaying in his mind.

 _Something real_ Mandy had quoted.

Mickey could almost laugh, what the fuck is Gallagher even doing wasting his time with him then?

With Mickey who is bruised knuckles and criminal records. Armed robbery and drug runs with his dad. As southside as Ian might be, as hardened to the streets as Mickey is sure he is, he has no idea, nobody does, just what being a Milkovich really means, what being Terry’s son turns you into and what Mickey paid for in prison. This guy wants something real and he decides to get himself involved with Mickey fucking Milkovich.

Mickey grabs his phone as the sound of the TV pours from the living room, figuring that Mandy is finally finished up with their call.

The simply unassuming _Hey_ sits unsent in the chat box from where Mickey had been on the verge of contact him all day, typing and retyping the word over and over. He stares at it for a moment, finger hover over the delete button.

It’s been four days with no real reason for a radio silence and in all that time Mickey wonders how often the same thought that he now can’t remove from his mind has crossed Ian’s. But really, why _doesn’t_ Ian aim for a Mark or literally anyone else? As annoying as he is, Mickey is certain that Ian could charm just about anyone he wanted. The fact that he somehow managed to get Mickey coming back for more is evidence enough.

And Mickey isn’t sure what thought makes him more uncomfortable, that Ian could in theory get anyone he wanted or the fact that he _doesn’t_.

With one last glance at his phone, mickey bites his lip and he hits send, placing the device onto his bedside table.

Almost instantly it begins to vibrate, Ian’s name flashing across the screen with an incoming call.

“What?” he demands in lieu of any kind of greeting, accepting the call with only a moment of anxious hesitation.

“Hey.”

He hates how much better he feels at the mere sound of his voice, like a pressure release in his lungs.

“You really had to fucking call me to say that?”

“You want me to hang up?” Ian counters and Mickey rolls his eyes with a sigh. He doesn’t answer the question though, forcing Ian to take his silence as answer enough when he continues. “How’s it going?”

Mickey shrugs before remember Ian can’t see him.

“Fine, nothing to shout about,” he says. He wants to ask about Ian’s audition, wants to know, but if Ian wanted to tell him, Mickey is sure he would have by now, especially if it was good news so, deciding it best be left alone, he doesn’t mention it. “You work today?” He asks for no other reason other than he doesn’t really know what to say. This shit is much easier when they’re together, when their purpose for interacting is obvious and Mickey doesn’t feel like he has to try so damn hard.

“Mmm hmm,” Ian answers through a yawn, “opening shift at the diner followed immediately by my 5pm class. I only got home like an hour ago.”

“Doesn’t that shit get exhausting?”

“Yeah but, it’s what I love to do.” Ian’s voice is sleepy, and for some reason Mickey imagines him laying on his back on his bed as he speaks into the phone.

“That include cleaning up greasy diner plates?”

“Maybe not so much that part, but I do enjoy being able to pay my bills so,” Ian responds.

“Right.”

“Yup.”

Neither of them says anything for a moment. Mickey hopelessly relying on Ian to steer the conversation and when the silence extends long enough for it to be awkward, he considers just hanging the fuck up until Ian does eventually speak.

“So, are we just gonna hang out on the phone listening to each other breathing like creepy weirdos?”

“I don’t know man, why the fuck did you even call anyway?”

“I don’t know.” The statement sits in it’s obvious lie but Mickey doesn’t contest the fact. He’s glad he called but he’ll never admit that.

Instead he bites his lip and looks at the wall, finally deciding to just fucking ask the question he wants to. So what if he fucking cares, sue him.

“So, how’d it go?”

“How’d what go?” is Ian’s belated response. Mickey can’t tell if he’s being genuinely dense or if he’s just fucking with him. Either way he keeps his voice as measured as possible as he patiently replies.

“The fucking audition thing, man,” he says and listens to the obvious shift when Ian catches on.

“Oh, shit yeah. I got a call back for next week. Can’t fucking believe it.”

The last time Mickey had seen Ian he’d been practically bouncing off the walls with nerves or excitement or whatever. The distinct lack of energy since then meant Mickey wasn’t exactly expecting good news, but when Ian replies, voice hopeful and optimistic, he feels a foreign swell of what must be pride blossoming in his chest.

“Could’ve fucking told me,” he says, lacking his usual distinct malice but still foregoing any kind of congratulation, lest Ian actually realise that Mickey is happy for him.

“Could’ve fucking asked.”

“I’m asking now.”

“And I’m telling you now, asshole!” Ian argues and Mickey laughs, feeling at ease with the gentle bickering in a way he’s never felt before. He’s arguing not because he has a chip on his shoulder but simply because it’s Ian and somehow, it’s become a mutual language between the two, one that Mickey speaks with ease.

“Alright,” he relents. “So what happens now?”

“They’re gonna divide everyone up into groups to see how we perform as part of an ensemble, and then I’ll guess they’ll cherry pick from there.”

“Yeah? What’s the competition like?”

“Unreal. And obviously, they’re looking for guys who can seriously dance but they’re also looking for hot guys and It’s intimidating as fuck to _know_ you’re being literally objectified while standing there all sweaty and out of breath,” Ian rambles, creating quite the mental image for Mickey.

“If you’re fishing for fucking compliments here you aint getting ‘em from me,” he says because Ian owns a fucking mirror, being a hot guy is definitely not the requirement he should be worried about.

“Worth a try,” he says, though there’s still a touch of insecurity in his voice.

“Hey, just. Don’t think about nothing else alright? Just do what you know how to fucking do.”

“I will,” Ian promises, “thanks, Mickey.” His voice soft and affectionate in a way nobody has ever spoken to Mickey before, not even close, and there’s something deep down within him that maybe likes the feeling

They speak for a little while longer as Ian details exactly how the audition went down and Mickey surprises himself by actually listening, actually wanting to know more. It’s a world he’s never experienced, never had even the slightest desire to have any part of but, when it’s Ian telling him about it, Mickey can’t help but give a shit.

And that’s what scares him the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my knowledge of the audition process for this sort of thing is super iffy and I'm kinda making it up as I go along based on scraps of stuff I know from other experiences but...hey it's fiction!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Better late than never, right!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the wait. When the show started again I obviously became very wrapped up in that and it was very hard to get back into the headspace of this version of Ian and Mickey that I need to be in to write this. 
> 
> I'm still very much invested in telling this story though so thanks for your patience and for each and every kudos and review! I appreciate you all!

It’s a strange feeling to get used to, waking up in someone else’s bed. What’s infinitely more bizarre to Mickey is waking up in someone’s arms.

He’s been jolted awake before with a gun pointed at him, roused by the sounds of screams or his father yelling at the top of his lungs. He spent most of his time in prison sleeping with one eye open, his back pressed firmly to the wall and a shiv tucked inside his pillowcase. Sleep was never a time for resting, it was his most vulnerable and Mickey often woke feeling more tired than when he’d gone to bed.

That morning, he wakes up earlier than normal. His eyes reluctantly flicker open at barely past 5am, early enough that Ian has yet to stir, ever the morning person that he’s turned out to be much to Mickey’s dismay. His arm is strewn across him, wrapping Mickey up securely in his embrace. Their legs are tangled together and, Mickey notices as he blinks the sleep from his eyes, that Ian’s hand rests comfortably atop his. Their fingers aren’t quite linked, but at some point in the night Ian had managed to slide his index finger beneath his in the gentlest connection.

And Mickey should get up, push Ian away for this faux display of affection but fuck, it’s 5 fucking am and neither of them have anywhere to be today. Ian is snoring gently behind him, his breath hitching slightly on every other intake. Mickey doesn’t have the heart to wake him, not when the sun is only just creeping beneath the curtain, filling the room with a warm honey coloured hue.

Mickey sighs and rests his head back into the pillow, letting himself become wrapped up once again in its comfort and deciding to let Ian rest.

It’s the first time he’s actually seen him sleep in a while now, with Mickey being the first to fall asleep most nights and Ian the first to wake up each day. The last week he’d been an anxious, nerve filled mess as he prepared for his call back. He’d tried to hide it, tried to shake off Mickey’s uncharacteristic concern by poking fun at the fact that he was, in actual fact, concerned, but Mickey could tell his thoughts were always elsewhere. He was barely eating, spending most of his spare time in the studio rehearsing when he wasn’t fucking Mickey into the bed. It was getting hard to keep up with him.

His big audition, or call back or whatever, was yesterday and Mickey isn’t sure how exactly these things are meant to go, but he had been a little disappointed to discover that Ian still had no answer as to whether he’d gotten the job. They were gonna call him some time this week, Ian had explained over the phone last night when Mickey was on his way over. He’d sounded encouragingly optimistic, leaving Mickey satisfied at least in the fact that Ian seemed finally to relax. Now, with Ian’s arm draped over him, head buried in the base of his neck, Mickey can tell for certain that there isn’t a tense muscle in his whole body.

He’d decided a couple days before that for once he was going to take his full two-day weekend when Ian had mentioned he had no classes to teach or any shifts at the diner. Their time together always managed to get cut short by one of them needing to shoot off somewhere. It’s something that shouldn’t have been a problem, something that should have been a relief to Mickey who did everything to ensure this remained what it was first promised as.

But for once he’d decided it wouldn’t be so bad to just stay and, feeling no desire whatsoever to move from his current spot, engulfed in a comfort he’s never known before, Mickey is glad he made the decision.

* * *

When Mickey wakes again, having not even realised he’d fallen back to sleep, Ian is up too. The loss of his warmth, is the first thing he notices as he slowly comes to. Ian is sitting up in bed beside him, scrolling through social media apps on his phone. He’s yet to actually leave the embrace of the covers, instead of his usual routine of jumping straight in the shower the moment he wakes as Mickey had become accustomed to.

“Morning,” Ian says with a pleasant smile, eyes leaving his phone for a moment to glance at Mickey.

“Hey,” Mickey greets, voice croaky as he rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The faint sound of the traffic outside filters through the window while Mickey debates whether the urge to pee is strong enough to warrant getting out of bed for yet.

“Check this out,” Ian says, interrupting his thought and sinking lower in the bed to shuffle up close to Mickey to show him something on his phone. It’s a Youtube video of some impossibly ripped guy in a wet t-shirt dancing dramatically to some pop song Mickey has never heard of.

“That your fucking wet dream or something?” Mickey mocks, the last remnants of sleep leaving him with a yawn.

“That’s Wes, he’s the choreographer,” Ian says with a shove, the fact that Ian actually knows this guy instead of just drooling over some randomer on the internet making Mickey take another glance. “Just look at that technique,” Ian says, using his free hand to point at the video. Mickey can’t see how what this guy does is any different to the shit he’s seen Ian do, aside from the wet shirt of course.

“Would be a real shame if you had to fuck the guy to get the job,” he comments.

“Very funny,” Ian says with a roll of his eyes and exiting from the video and placing his phone on the side table.

“You telling me you wouldn’t?”

Ian turns back towards Mickey, a playful glint in his eye and in one fluid movement, he pins Mickey down hard onto the bed, hands gripping his wrists and pressing them into the pillow.

“You telling me I should?” Ian counters, voice slow and challenging.

Mickey bites his lip, repressing a smile as Ian gazes down at him. Fuck is he glad he took the day off.

Ian leans down and kisses him gently, lips pecking teasingly at Mickey’s before diving deeper. Mickey reciprocates the action, letting Ian guide the way as his hands trail south from where’d they’d gripped Mickey’s wrists, groping possessively at Mickey’s hips on their way down.

Mickey breaks the kiss before they can get much further though, shoving Ian out of the way with a palm on his chest.

“Get the fuck off me, Gallagher, I gotta pee,” he says and Ian lets himself be pushed away, falling ungraciously onto the bed next to Mickey who promptly sits up and raises his hands above his head to stretch. 

“And brush your teeth too.”

Mickey flips him off on his way to the bathroom.

After washing his hands, he brushes his teeth as ordered and, for good measure, takes a swig of Ian’s mouthwash while he’s there. After spitting he takes a look in the mirror. His hair is sticking up at every angle but after a few attempts to brush it down he figures who gives a shit.

The thing that really takes his notice though is the difference in his physique. Sure he’s not exactly some ripped douchebag with abs showing through his wet t-shirt while he dances in the rain but he’s built up some noticeable muscle in the last month or two.

And he never started this weight shit for any kind self-conscious reasons, he’s never given much of a shit about his body, so long as he can hit hard and run fast. He started because it was a distraction, because he was good at it, because it gave him a sense of control.

But still, he can’t deny that he likes the results. Mickey doesn’t know if he’s ever felt any kind of pride in who he is, but for once he’s looking in the mirror and doesn’t despise the person staring back at him. 

Ian is still lying in bed when Mickey returns, scrolling once again through his phone with a bored expression on his face.

“You gonna get your ass up or what?”

Ian shrugs as he watches Mickey head towards the kitchen.

“How about you make me breakfast in bed?” Ian suggests innocently, eyes wide to complete the charade.

In the kitchen, Mickey snatches a banana from the fruit bowl and tosses it onto the mattress in response.

“Bon appetite, Motherfucker.”

It’s enough to make Ian laugh out loud as he sits up, grabbing the banana to peel it.

In the kitchen, Mickey helps himself to a bowl from the cupboard and pours himself some cereal before coming back into the room, bowl in hand and spooning Cheerios into his mouth.

Ian is up now, finishing off the last bite of his banana and takes the peel to the trash.

“You wanna see some of the choreo Wes taught us?” he says with a mouthful.

Mickey shrugs, chewing slowly on his breakfast and figuring Ian is gonna show him regardless of what he says. Rightfully so, Ian is already finding the right music track on his phone, turning the volume up maybe too loud for this time in the morning and placing it on the kitchen counter.

He doesn’t so much perform the moves directly for Mickey, instead incorporates them into his morning routine, grabbing the coffee pot with one hand while his feet track the rhythm, singing along badly to the words.

Mickey doesn’t really know what to say, simply watches with amusement as Ian, hyped up on what he has no idea, bounds around the kitchen like someone possessed. The steps are messy and out of sync but the smile on Ian’s face brings it all to life in the most authentic kind of showmanship. He’s seen Ian dance before but he’s never seen him have this much fun with it.

Once there’s a steady drip of coffee pouring into the pot, Ian turns towards Mickey. Before he can even register what’s about to happen, Ian is grabbing his arm, forcing him to trip forward as Ian bring him close, his other hand grabbing onto his hip and forcing Mickey from side to side in a poor imitation of the moves Ian had been performing.

“I’m tryna fucking eat,” he says around the spoon, forcing himself out of Ian’s grip but Ian refuses to let go, chasing after Mickey persistently. “I will fucking tackle you,” Mickey warns pushing Ian away. Ian huffs as he stops to pout in Mickey’s direction but there’s no way he’s changing his mind, there’s no way.

Still, he can’t help but feel the room is missing something now, like the energy has been sucked out of the place, turning it into a vacuum and, not wanted to sour the moment as he so often has a tendency to do, Mickey gestures half dismissively towards Ian, spoon in hand.

“Didn’t say you had to stop,” he says, urging Ian to continue whatever weirdo shit he was on before.

Ian grins, shaking his head and moving back towards the kitchen. He turns the music down a little on his phone but continues to move fluidly around the kitchen before he faces Mickey, a pair of mugs in his hand.

“You want some?”

It may taste like stale dirt, but Mickey finds he can’t say no.

After breakfast they share a shower together and Mickey adds another first to his list.

There’s soap in his mouth and water in his eyes but fuck, the slick feeling of Ian pressing into him from behind, lips pressed hungrily into the back of his neck as his breath fogs up the already steamed glass is unlike any experience he’s had.

They emerge from the shower with matching grins, Ian already eyeing Mickey like he’s ready to go again as Mickey wraps a towel around his waist, chest still heaving from the first round.

Ian’s apartment is tiny and the bathroom definitely reflects this in its size, barely big enough to fit the shower, toilet and sink combo but Mickey doesn’t feel claustrophobic as Ian crowds into him again, pressing a warm, humid kiss to his lips as his back presses into the lip of the sink.

Ian smells like soap and shampoo and Mickey imagines he smells much the same, but he gets lost in it nonetheless, smiling breathlessly into the kiss until Ian finally pulls away and grabs a towel to dry himself with.

* * *

“How’d you get into this shit anyway?” Mickey asks later as Ian hands him the cigarette he’d just lit. It has become a thing between them, sharing cigarettes. Mickey doesn’t like to light one up at Ian’s place and Ian doesn’t like to smoke a whole one to himself so it’s an easy compromise that works for both of them.

They’re on the sofa, letting the day drag on without any intentions, trapped within their pocket of time that’s all theirs, unbothered by anything that isn’t the two of them living in the world that exists only in this room. “This dance stuff,” Mickey clarifies before placing the filter against his lips.

“S’kind of a long story.”

“Not like I’m fucking going anywhere,” Mickey says, blowing out a lungful of smoke and passing the cigarette back. He can feel his muscles relaxing, like his whole body is sinking into the sofa with it.

Ian gives him a look when he takes it, like he can’t believe Mickey is even half interested enough to want to know. But ever since they met, Ian has been nothing but surprise after surprise. There’s something about him that Mickey can’t shake, something genuine, something that Mickey, as much as he’s tried to ignore, can’t get enough of.

He wants to know him.

“It was my mom, actually,” Ian says and for a moment Mickey thinks he’s going to leave it at that. Ian seems to consider the same, as he gazes at Mickey and hesitates but then he’s sucking in a deep breath, as though preparing himself for a long road ahead before he continues. “Well, sort of. She was…they called her hurricane Monica. We all did because that’s just who she was.”

Mickey isn’t entirely sure what the fuck this has to do with why Ian decided to pick up a pair of ballet shoes as a kid but he says nothing, figures Ian is at least going somewhere, and lets him continue.

“She suffered with Bipolar Disorder,” he explains, the word sticking on his tongue as he says it and it’s only now that Mickey realises he’s speaking in the past tense, the fact sitting heavily and unacknowledged in the air. 

“What’s that?” Mickey asks.

“Mood swings, mostly. But like, super fucking intense. It’s manageable with the right meds but she never took ‘em. She’d get really depressed sometimes, not get outta bed, hardly eat anything. Nothing would get through to her when she was like that but, as if someone flipped a switch, suddenly she’d bounce back and, like a hurricane, she’d plough through everything in our lives that had any semblance of normality, uproot it and then…then she’d just leave.”

Mouth in a tight line, Mickey says nothing. He doesn’t know shit about this Bipolar whatever but he does know a thing or two about moms who take off and never come back.

“So anyway, it was when she was like that, when she was manic, that she decided she wanted Debbie to take dance classes. It’s something any mom might do, but this was Monica and Debbie was five, there was no way I was gonna let her take my kid sister with her when she got like that, so I insisted on going with them.”

“How fucking old were you?”

“Ten,” Ian admits, still a kid himself, but forced to grow up a hell of a lot faster than most kids. Mickey remembers being ten. He doesn’t remember being a kid.

“We drove half way across town and Debbie started crying the second we got there,” Ian continues, “she didn’t want anything to do with it. She was really into soccer at the time, all she wanted was to kick a ball around, but Monica slapped a credit card on the counter, god knows where she got it from, and paid three months’ worth of lessons in advance. We sat and watched, Debbie cried the whole time but Monica couldn’t see that, she just smiled and clapped and cheered her on…I guess she _thought_ she was being a good mom but…”

“So how’d you end up taking the classes?” Mickey asks, assuming that’s where the story’s headed.

“Monica took off a couple days later. No one else knew about what happened, about the money she spent or that she almost traumatised Debbie. I went back to see if we could get a refund which they couldn’t do because I wasn’t the cardholder…also because I was ten.”

Mickey imagines some freckly ginger twerp stepping up to a counter he’s barely taller than and demanding a refund, smiling to himself at the image it brings.

“So…what,” he says, trying to get back on track, connect the dots, “you just decided you’d get your money’s worth?”

Ian blushes then, his face lighting up like a beacon no matter how he tries to hide it.

“The dance instructor was kinda cute.”

Mickey looks at him, mouth hanging open in disbelief at the confession.

“You telling me you based your whole fucking career on a crush you had when you were a kid?”

“He kinda had this Justin Timberlake vibe,” Ian tries to defend, digging himself deeper in the process.

“You realise this makes it, like, a thousand times worse, right?” Mickey says, absolutely delighted at this small fact and the knowledge that he can potentially torture Ian with it for weeks.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Ian says righteously but Mickey won’t have it.

“You fucking should be,” he says, gripped with sheer amusement as Ian refuses to react. Instead he grins at Mickey mischievously.

“ _I’m gonna rock your body_ ,” he begins to sing off key as he pushes himself up and crawls over to Mickey, climbing into his lap and kissing him sloppily, “ _Dance with me_.”

It’s wholly and undeniably ridiculous but Mickey doesn’t protest, his whole body relaxed in a combination of the remnants from their steamy shower and the nicotine coursing through his blood, leaving his head pleasantly fogged. His brain receptors seem capable only of acknowledging the fucking bliss of Ian’s weight heavy on his lap, his hips thrusting tentatively against Mickey’s, as though testing the waters.

Mickey kisses back with fervour, struggling to figure out how they even managed to go from a semi-serious conversation to _this._

Ian moans, tongue hungrily tasting Mickey, unable to be quenched as his hand travels to the back of his head, threading his hair between his fingers and dragging his nails across Mickey’s scalp.

“We gonna do this again? Right now?” Mickey mumbles, sated and delirious with pleasure as Ian rocks harder into him. He’s half laughing into the kiss, the whole situation feeling like nonsense as the abundance of information Ian had confessed contradicts every aspect of the current mood.

“Would you rather we played fucking scrabble?”

“Fuck scrabble,” Mickey says, thrusting his own hips up to meet Ian’s, crying out with pleasure as he sees stars.

Pulling back, Ian hastily pulls off his t-shirt before reattaching his lips to Mickey’s, unable to get enough before his hands are clumsily pulling at the buttons on Mickey’s shirt. Mickey helps him along the way, lest he rip some of them off and Mickey is no good with a needle and cotton unless it’s for makeshift stitches.

Once they’re skin to skin, breath to breath, Ian takes a moment to pull back. Chest heaving, Mickey doesn’t know what he’s about to pull but he doesn’t expect him to do…literally nothing. Ian just looks at him, like he’s taking him all in, committing him to memory or some shit. His breathing is hard and heavy, a calm, wonderous smile playing on his open mouth and though Mickey is growing impatient, his jeans uncomfortably tight, he says nothing, allowing himself a moment to try and focus his eyes on something. The light dusting of freckles on Ian’s skin, the hint of ginger stubble shadowing his jaw, the misty green of his eyes.

Before he knows it, before he even knows what to think about what’s happening, Ian is upon him again with hungry lips, pulling him up aggressively by his belt loops and dragging him stumblingly towards the bed.

* * *

“You know I wanted to be in the army?”

They’re on top of Ian’s sheets chests heaving still and the comforter lying discarded on the floor from where Mickey had impatiently kicked it away, tired of the way it tangled up around his feet.

“What?” Mickey mumbles, his mind barely able to catch up.

“Dancing was never a serious career path. I was still a south side kid barely clinging to the closet after all. Did ROTC at school.”

“Why didn’t you sign up or nothing?” Mickey asks, avoiding the fact that he’s secretly glad he didn’t go down that path.

“Lots of reasons,” Ian says non-committedly after a pause long enough to make Mickey wonder if he was going to answer at all.

The answer is vague, intentionally so, so while Mickey wonders why exactly he even brought it up in first place, he chooses not to push. They lay there in silence for a few more moments, the sound of their breathing evening out in harmony and Mickey’s racing heartbeat returning slowly to normal.

“So what happened after the three months were up?” Mickey eventually asks, reverting back to where they’d left off on Ian’s story earlier. “How’d you pay for lessons?” He’s staring at the ceiling still but he can see from the corner of his eye how Ian turns to him, but he refuses to look back himself, knows exactly what he’d see anyway and feels safer just avoiding it.

“It was obvious pretty quickly that the cute dance instructor, understandably, wanted nothing to do with a ten year old,” Ian explains, “I didn’t exactly want to come clean to my family about where I was going every week and asking them for money was out of the question. I was planning to forget the whole thing, but I guess I wasn’t as good at keeping secrets as I thought because my older brother found out.”

Mickey doesn’t know much about Ian’s family but if they’re southside and anything like Mickey’s brother and cousins, he figures that couldn’t have ended well. Colin kicked the shit outta him for less when he was a kid, until he was old enough to fight back at least. He chances a glance at Ian though and sees not a trace of any kind of angst around the subject, instead he’s smiling at a memory he’s yet to confide.

His eyes meet Mickey’s then and Ian bits his lip, supressing his smile but Mickey can still see it, there clear as day in his eyes. He wonders what it must be like to think back on your life with anything other than bitterness.

“I like to think that Monica is the reason I dance, it’s because of her that I ever set foot inside a dance studio, even though it was never her intention for me to have anything to do with it. It’s a nice way to remember her though, to honour her and take her with me in everything I do despite how messed up our relationship was. But really I have my brother to thank.” Ian sits up, rolls his shoulders as he stretches before he continues, settling back into the pillows behind him. “It can’t have been hard to figure out, I mean all he had to do was follow me which I guess he decided to do one day. He confronted me when I got home, there was no way I could convincingly lie my way out of it so I told him. Minus the whole gay awakening thing,” he admits.

"I guess he saw how much I enjoyed it and ended raising some money for me to keep going. Started up a hustle at school where kids would pay him to do their homework. It was genius, word spread fast and soon he was coughing up papers for 2, 3 grades above his from schools all across the district,” Ian reminisces fondly.

“Wait,” Mickey says, the name finally lining up in his memories, sparking something he’d forgotten was ever there and would have remained lost if not for Ian, “your brother is fucking _Lip_ Gallagher? That kid used to write my English essays.” 

“Holy shit,” Ian says, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

“Got me up to a fucking B minus.” The memory swims back, as insignificant as it was at the time. His teacher had been mildly impressed that Mickey had turned anything in at all and Mickey was just glad he didn’t have to try and find an excuse as to why his dad wasn’t gonna come in for a discussion on his failing grades.

It was all for nothing in the end though. He’d dropped out eventually, carried on the family legacy of being a fuckup by the time he was 15.

“I guess you kinda funded the start of my career then, huh?” Ian muses and Mickey laughs at the thought of his scruffy, unwashed teenage self paying for some scrawny ginger kid in the neighbourhood to get dance lessons.

“Yeah, you’re fucking welcome,” he says nonetheless, surprising himself by feeling warmed by the idea. “You can pay me the fuck back when you get this gig.”

“You really think I’ll get it?” And he’s suddenly uncertain, searching for reassurance and looking unlike everything Mickey has come to associate with Ian.

He shrugs.

“Why wouldn’t you?”

Ian stands, ignoring the question. He takes his time finding his underwear and pulling on some sweatpants while Mickey takes in the last of the view.

“You want some dinner?” Ian asks over his shoulder, changing the subject. Mickey frowns, checks the time on his phone and is shocked to find that it’s already past 6 in the evening, the late setting summer sun yet to sink below the horizon. He can’t remember the last time he wasted a day so satisfyingly.

* * *

He has no idea how, but somehow Ian manages to rope Mickey into the kitchen to chop vegetables while he browns some chicken for the stir fry he decided they were gonna have.

“They gotta be thin strips,” he complains, reaching for the knife but Mickey is faster as he pulls away in faux annoyance.

“Okay, genius. You really wanna try me when I’m holding a knife?”

“You gonna fucking stab me over some sliced peppers, Mickey?” Ian laughs, knowing Mickey isn’t serious.

“I’ll fucking stab you if you don’t stop being so goddamn annoying,” he counters, resuming his chopping and making damn well sure the bell peppers are cut up into thin enough slices.

Ian moves as he cooks, shuffles his feet and sings along to whatever is on the radio like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. Mickey wonders if the guy has ever just stood still for five minutes in his whole life but his good mood is contagious at least and Mickey can’t ignore the unfamiliar sense of ease that creeps its way into his chest like a narcotic, numbing everything else in its path.

When the food is almost done, Ian opens the fridge and retrieves two bottles of Old Style, handing one to Mickey and uncapping his own. With raised eyebrows, Mickey twists the cap of his own. Seeing Ian drink is a rarity, much less in his own place; it feels wrong somehow, but it’s not like he’s gonna police Ian’s drinking habits, they guy’s a grown ass man after all.

They eat on the sofa, owing to the fact that there’s no space in the apartment for a dining table of any kind. Mickey feels at home in a way he hasn’t in a long time. He feels safe.

“So, I have a question,” Ian says , after unsuccessfully finding something good to watch on TV and settling on an old rerun of How I Met Your Mother.

And the way he says it, like he knows he’s pushing, knows he’s about to ask for more than Mickey is ever willing to give has Mickey armed and ready to build up those Iron clad walls again.

He gives no indication that he intends to answer to such an inconclusive statement which is apparently more than enough of a go ahead for Ian to continue while he dances his fork around his bowl.

“Why were you in prison?”

It’s not exactly what Mickey expected but it sucks the air from his lungs nonetheless.

“Because I got arrested that’s why,” he mutters sarcastically, stabbing his food with his fork and refusing to look at Ian.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Ian urges gently after a moment’s pause, “but I won’t hold it against you, whatever it is. Unless you like murdered someone, then that might be a conversation.” He’s rambling, trying to lighten the tone, that much is obvious, and it’s clear that Ian doesn’t really believe Mickey did something so bad as kill someone, although where he finds such surety Mickey has no idea. Cold-blooded murder isn’t something to put past a Milkovich.

“Shut up and eat your noodles, man,” Mickey says, glaring at the TV as his eats. The silence that follows is no longer comfortable. Ian doesn’t push but Mickey can feel it, the diminishing hope that Mickey might for once give something back in return. He’s spent the whole day learning about Ian’s past, about his chaotic, well-meaning mother and his alcoholic, deadbeat dad, his brother who’s always had his back and his sister who practically raised him alongside a nest full of young ones.

And fuck does Mickey hate feeling like he owes the guy.

“I stole a fucking car,” he confesses with a sigh after Ian takes their bowls to the kitchen and the end credits begin to fade onto the screen. It’s not that he’s ashamed, not that he’s trying to fool Ian into thinking he’s someone he’s not, but he’s already wasted 25 years of his life with this shit and it feels pointless to spend any more time dwelling on it. It’s in the past. “Went for a joy ride and got busted.” It’s as close to the truth as he can get in the space of one sentence.

“Huh,” Ian says, digesting the information as he sits back down before adding with a smile “and now you’re a mechanic?”

“Yeah, my PO thought he was real fucking hilarious.”

“It’s fitting, like a redemption tale.”

“More like the punishment fits the crime,” Mickey mutters, taking a swig of his beer and putting on his usual charade. He doesn’t hate working at the shop, but to admit that it’s one of the things that turned his life around would be kinda pathetic so he keeps up the charade that it’s a chore.

“Why’d you do it?” Ian pushes after a few moments of Mickey pretending to watch the ad break. He mulls it over. It’s an intricately more complicated story than that he simply stole a car for the thrill of it.

“Shit was different back then, man,”

“Hey, It’s not like I’m about to go lock up all my valuables.”

“No, I mean – Fuck.” Mickey pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezes his eyes tight. “It was back when my dad was alive. He was a real piece of work, y’know? We weren’t his kids, we were his fucking soldiers.”

“Shit.”

“Look, I aint looking for fucking sympathy or anything here, man. Just telling you what the fuck happened. Not like I can pretend I didn’t get a kick outta it or nothing. It was the way things were.”

Ian says nothing. He relaxes back into the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table and head resting on his arm, giving Mickey a look that he can’t quite decipher. He continues, he doesn’t know why but for the first time since it happened, he recounts the events that took away two years of his life, how meaningless the whole thing really was.

“Dad sent me on a run,” he starts, “I was headed outta town and my fucking car broke down. Rang for help and all dad told me was if I didn’t come back with the goods then it’s my ass on the line. Didn’t exactly have time to wait around for triple A so I stole a fucking Jaguar. Guess I was lucky I got busted before I made the deal or I’d’ve been looking at a helluva lot more than just 2 years. They were suspicious as fuck about the amount of cash I had on me but there was nothing else they could pin on me except for grand theft auto.”

And out of all the shit he’d pulled with his dad and his cousins, it’s such a stupid fucking thing to get busted for, such an idiotic spur of the moment decision made just to stay in daddy dearest’s good books.

“Never saw the bastard again after that,” Mickey finishes, “Last thing that fucker ever did for me was get me locked up.”

“But you made it out,” Ian insists like it’s worth something, “You turned your life around, that’s something to be proud of, right?”

Mickey huffs dismissively.

“Don’t go thinking I had much to do with it. Fact is if Pops was still alive and kicking I’d’ve ended up right back in the middle of his bullshit.”

He’d have been last in the pecking order, berated and belittled for getting busted as Terry turned his favour to Colin or Tony or god forbid fucking Iggy in his absence. But he’d have been there, lined up like a good little soldier waiting for orders.

“Hey,” Ian says, interrupting his thoughts with a voice earnest enough to convince Mickey to turn and meet Ian’s eyes, “don’t sell yourself short.”

“Yeah well, what do you know?” The question lacks any spite but Mickey can’t help but argue, contradict any positive opinion Ian may have about him.

He doesn’t know why he’s talking about this in the first place, nor when he stopped offering the bare minimum to Ian’s relentless determination to know him. It’s easier, somehow, to just give in, give the guy what he wants and hope it doesn’t break him along the way.

Because there’s _something_ and he can’t pretend there isn’t. And although Mickey doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe it, wouldn’t dare to even if he could, he can at least recognise that he’s given Ian far more of himself than anyone else in his life. 

He chances a glance, unsure what he expects to find after his pathetic admissions but Ian is smirking, one corner pinching up towards his eye as he looks Mickey up and down and he knows that look all to well. Ian inches closer, hand grazing his thigh and pushing upwards.

“I think I know you better than you think,” he insists before sinking to his knees and toying at the waistband to Mickey’s underwear before making short work of pulling his boxers down forcefully.

“You’re gonna wear me the fuck out Gallagher,” Mickey says through a smile, shifting his weight to allow Ian to strip him with ease as the bitter memories from a different lifetime thankfully flicker away.

“That’s the plan,” he says with a grin before sinking down. Mickey closes his eyes in pure bliss, hand resting on the back of Ian’s head as he guides him. It takes a little longer for him to get fully hard after all the times they’d been at it today but all that means is that he gets to have Ian’s mouth on him for all the much longer.

But it’s not enough, and Mickey finds himself feeling aimless while Ian drags his tongue teasingly along Mickey dick. Mickey grips him tightly at the back of his neck and urges him up. Ian looks lost for a moment, pulling off with a look of confusion, like he’d done something wrong but Mickey just tugs him upwards into his lap so he can get his own mouth on him.

Understanding reaches Ian quickly and he happily obliges, raising both hands to grab at Mickey face and kiss him back in return, thumb swiping affectionately against Mickey’s temple. The position isn’t ideal, and Ian’s limbs are far too long for him for fit comfortable on Mickey’s lap but the thought is far from either of their minds as Ian presses his hips down into Mickey’s.

They rut together for several moments, Mickey allowing his hand to trail down Ian’s chest before pulling away briefly so he can tug off his shirt, craving the touch of his hand on bare skin until its too much to bear. Ian’s skin is smooth and pale and Mickey thumbs his nipple as he reclaims his mouth eagerly, tasting the slight tang of the teriyaki sauce from their dinner and knowing he probably tastes the same.

“Hold on,” Ian says, pulling away once more, and Mickey takes the opportunity to try and catch his breath.

“The fuck,” He breathes when Ian stands. Though he had been slow to get there, he’s painfully hard now and the sudden loss of Ian’s weight from his lap is nothing short of torture.

“Just a sec,” Ian is saying as he pulls off his own boxers and tosses them on the floor next to his discarded shirt. Mickey takes the opportunity to untangle is own pair from his legs, kicking them away before Ian reclaims his spot.

He takes his time though, knees placed on the sofa on either side of Mickey but he doesn’t sit down, doesn’t make contact. Instead he caresses Mickey’s face slowly, tortuously, mouth parted slightly as he takes him in again, the same way he had earlier. Mickey bites his lip and looks away, hating the attention as his chest stutters in self-consciousness.

In what feels like a fraction of a second, Ian’s hand grips tightly onto Mickey’s bicep and he’s pulling them downwards into a laying position on the sofa, Mickey suddenly on top of Ian and Ian’s lips on his.

Ian’s hands grope at his bare ass, pulling Mickey closer and stars burst behind his eyelids as he feels that friction once more. Mickey forces a hand between them, grabbing both of their cocks in one hand, feeling now with them both side by side just how much bigger Ian is than him.

He’s almost there himself, and Ian’s hips jut eagerly into his hand, matching his rhythm. They’ve forgone kissing at this point, Mickey’s head resting against Ian’s forehead as he speeds up the tempo, chasing his own orgasm

It’s awkward and the angle isn’t ideal but Mickey brings them both over the finishing line with a series of short staccato dragging breaths against hot skin.

He collapses onto Ian when he’s done, head resting in the crook of his neck as he catches his breath.

God he never wants to move.

Ian seems to have the same idea, wrapping his arms affectionately around Mickey and holding him close.

“We’re gonna need another shower,” Ian says with resignation and Mickey grimaces as the realisation sinks in that they’d both come all over their stomachs.

Mickey sits up, chest still heaving as he takes in the damage.

They’re definitely gonna need another shower.

With a shake of his head, he rises form the sofa and away from the comfort of Ian’s embraces to head towards the bathroom, knowing without a shadow of a doubt that Ian isn’t far behind him.

* * *

He never intended to stay over for a second night, he’d only brought one change of clothes but considering they both spent most of the previous day in some state of undress, Mickey can’t find a reason to care as he wakes in Ian’s bed for the second consecutive morning.

Ian’s phone is ringing, and Mickey grumbles as his eyes adjust to the light and Ian stirs beside him, reaching blindly for his phone.

“Hello,” Ian’s voice answers groggily, settling into his pillow as Mickey tries in vain to get back to sleep and to block out all sounds from beside him.

But then Ian’s voice shifts, seamlessly moving from sleepy and disgruntled to professional as he sits up and confirms that “yes, this Ian Gallagher.”

Mickey blinks his eyes open once more and turns onto his back, gazing towards Ian, his face serious but betraying a spark of excitement.

“Uh huh…okay…yeah.” And it’s like watching the air seep out of a balloon, the way Ian’s shoulders drop, the way his expression changes, how his tone turns blank. “Of course. I understand. Thanks for your call.” Ian hangs up and stares blankly at the device in his hands and blinking rapidly.

“Hey,” Mickey says, pushing himself up into a sitting position, knowing instinctively that something is so very not right and not having a single fucking clue as to how to handle it. “Who was it?” he asks redundantly, feeling a fool.

“Casting,” Ian says, his voice tight and empty. He looks at Mickey, mouth attempting to make the shape of whatever it is he’s trying to say before he takes a breath and forces the words out. “I didn’t get it.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see end notes for warnings

_Ian is 17 when his mother dies. An aneurysm, they’d said. Something about an artery in her brain, otherwise harmless but this one had ruptured. The doctor tells them there was no preventing it, that it could’ve happened at any time._

_It happens on his birthday._

_Ian never expected much growing up. With a deadbeat father and an unpredictable mother, it doesn’t take long for a Gallagher to realise that expecting anything is the first step to being bitterly disappointed. Ian knows how birthdays go. He’ll wake up, accept his birthday beats along with an extra helping of pancakes. Later there may be a cake while everyone gets trashed for the occasion, such is the Gallagher tradition._

_Gifts are few and far between. He’s at the age now where most of the attention goes to the younger kids in a hollow attempt to keep at least some of their childhood innocence intact. He might get a few hand-me-downs or thrift store bargains, washed, wrapped and made presentable by Fiona. Lip may swipe a bottle of whiskey for them to pass between them later. Debbie will hand make him a card, Carl will ask if he’s old enough to buy weapons yet while Liam will simply enjoy getting a big slice of cake._

_Ian has learned never to expect anything from either of his parents, but when Monica shows up in the first week of May, he wonders if she’ll stick around long enough to see him turn 17. He wonders if she’ll even remember and secretly,_ secretly _hopes that maybe his birthday is the reason she’s here. It’s a childish wish, one that he holds close until it’s the night before his birthday and Monica and Frank are jubilantly dancing in the living room drunk or high off whatever is running through their bloodstreams. There’s no real acknowledgement of the significance of the next day but Ian lets himself enjoy the rare moment of uncomplicated joy in the house before eventually turning in for the night, his heart light with excitement._

_She’s gone before he even wakes up the next morning._

_Ian remembers Fiona waking him gently with a hand on his arm. There are no tears in her eyes, just exhaustion._

_She’d just gotten back from the hospital and breaks the news. Lip already knew, as the second eldest, Fiona had left him in charge of the kids while she’d gone with Monica in the ambulance, Frank god knows where, but they’d both decided to let Ian sleep and he hates them for it._

_Because he missed it, he missed her by mere hours that he’ll never get back._

_The moment remains vivid in his mind, the way his limbs go numb and how Fiona just grips his arm so tightly it feels like he’ll lose the blood supply to it. He remembers the sound of the L rumbling in the distance and the faintest hint of birdsong mixed in among it. He remembers the feeling of being punched in the chest and all the air leaving his lungs. The moment is crystal clear, so poignant with the grief that hits him like a freight train and that he knows he’ll never forget that morning._

_But he doesn’t remember much after that moment._

_***_

_The days that follow eventually become defined as his first major depressive episode but at the time it’s a mess. Days blur together as Ian tries to figure out why exactly no one seems to_ care _quite as much as he does. Of course there’s the initial trauma, Debbie cries a lot, Carl gets into trouble at school and Liam is too young to really understand much but he does have the occasional nightmare caused likely by the fog of muted sorrow that descends upon the house. These are all normal, predictable symptoms of experiencing a loss like they have. Things that are handled, managed with the right amount of loving care and conversation from Fiona. But Ian feels simply like a ghost distant and untethered to the rest of the family._

_Fiona, with her hands pretty full, barely notices. He can’t blame her; he’d rather be left alone anyway and what was there to even notice anyway? He doesn’t cry, he doesn’t act out, he becomes numb to everything and everyone. Speaks when spoken to but allows no thoughts to pass his mind except how it feels like nothing will be the same again, like all hope is lost and there’s no way of bringing it back._

_And then, suddenly, it feels like Monica is just forgotten. Gone. A thing of the past. After the funeral his family think about her less, talk about her less. They move on but Ian still feels stuck, like they’ve all left him drowning in the quicksand without so much as a rope to pull himself free._

_He feigns sickness, skips school, anything to get out of the unbearable mundanity of sitting through never ending classes when his brain feels like ash. It doesn’t take long before he starts skipping rehearsals too, lacking the energy to even leave his bedroom. After he misses once, it’s all too easy to miss a second, then a third time until suddenly three weeks have passed and Ian hasn’t left the house except to sit under the L tracks in lieu of going to school._

_Fiona is furious when she eventually finds out about him skipping school, Ian is surprised she didn’t find out sooner if he’s honest but there are perks to her not technically being his legal guardian. Even then though, Ian can’t bring himself to care. His whole head feels engulfed in a black cloud as she lectures him on the importance of getting a good education._

_“Will someone tell me what the hell is wrong with that kid?” he overhears her one day after he ignores everybody in the kitchen and drags himself upstairs and it’s just about the absolute worst thing to hear._

_The reality is, she just doesn’t get it, and that’s what stings. None of them had a particularly strong bond with Monica, especially not Ian who would purposefully hide himself away whenever she showed up, barricade himself in his imaginary bunker until the hurricane had passed through, readying himself to deal with the destruction afterwards. There’s no reason for Fiona to understand why exactly the event of her death leaves Ian so immobilised, so hostile and detached. In all honesty, Ian doesn’t know why himself._

_The next morning, he can’t even bring himself to get out of bed. Lip tries to coax him downstairs for some breakfast, but Ian ignores him. Fiona brings him something to eat but he ignores that and the gentle kiss she places on the side of his head too. Their words mean nothing. Empty, meaningless, performative gestures. He’s sinking lower and lower and has given up trying to climb out. He doesn’t know how many days he lays there but Ian would be happy to just stay in his bed forever._

_But then the pendulum swings._

_In his solitude, Ian can’t help but spend those countless hours pondering the fragility of everything. How one minute Monica was alive and full of life and the next they were burying her body in the dirt. He simultaneously considers the pointlessness of life and the importance of seizing every moment. Someone turns the lights back on behind his eyes and it’s ultraviolet, like nothing he’s ever felt before, vivid and luminescent. He needs to live his life, he needs to get out of bed, get dressed, do something with himself. He owes it to Monica who no longer has the chance to._

_So he gets out of bed and Fiona almost cries when she sees him come down the stairs, showered and dressed, his disheveled hair tidily buzzed off. She makes him a big breakfast and sends him off to school with a relieved smile on her face. But Ian isn’t going to school, has no intentions of ever going back to school ever again._

_He has so many ideas! So many plans, so much more he could do with his life instead of wasting it, day after day sitting behind a desk learning about pointless shit. His aspirations are so much bigger than school, so much bigger than Chicago and the South Side._

_He wants to join the army. He wants to be somebody, he wants to help people, help the world._

_He’d thought he’d needed school for that, needed ROTC, needed to get good grades, needed West Point but it was all a distraction. Why wait? Why not enlist? Why not now? He already knows everything he needs. He can take action; he can take control right now and be in charge of his life for once._

_That’s the kind of initiative that gets people to the top, isn’t it? If anyone has what it takes it’s him._

_Once the thought burrows its way into his thoughts, Ian’s mind is made up and the euphoric rush of simply making that decision feels like the sweetest high he has ever known._

_“Hey,” Lip bursts his sporadic train of thought with a half jog as he catches up to him halfway towards the L. “You skipping out on school again, man? Fiona said you were feeling better.”_

_“Got better things to do!” Ian says with a triumphant grin. There’s a fake ID in his back pocket and his brother’s social security is memorised, luckily Lip turned 18 in March. The recruitment centre is just a few blocks away and so is Ian’s new life._

_“You need to go to school, Ian. You’ve missed almost two weeks, they’re gonna call fucking social services if you don’t show, I can’t keep covering for you.”_

_“You sound like Fiona,” Ian dismisses, shaking his head and keeping pace. Left, left, left right left._

_“Yeah, well Fiona’s kinda got a point. What good’s dropping out gonna do?” Ian says nothing, keeps his gaze steadfast ahead. “What about your dance classes? You skipping out on that too?”_

_“I’m not a kid anymore,” Ian insists, amusement colouring his tone. He knows now that it’s time to put childish things away. Time now to be a man, make his family proud of him, make his country proud of him._

_“You shitting me? You know how much money we put into that shit?” Ian ignores him, doesn’t expect him to understand. “Jesus, will you fucking stop?” Lip demands with a tug at his brother’s shoulder. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”_

_“_ Nothing _is fucking wrong with me!” Ian all but screams, pausing in his regimented stride to face his brother because for once he feels alive, for once he’s in control, unstoppable. He knows what he wants and he’s going after it in the most efficient way he can, he isn’t going to let anyone, not even his best friend, get in the way of that._

_“The fuck is your problem?” Lip says with a shove._

_“Don’t fucking touch me,” Ian spits with a retaliating push. Lip grabs hold of his jacket when he does preventing Ian from storming off but all it does is serve to provoke him more. Ian swipes his brothers’ hands away before throwing the first punch._

_It’s not the first time they’ve used fists to settle disputes. Their fights are usually scrappy, short-lived and with no real intention of hurting each other but Ian finds that this time, once he starts hitting, he can’t stop as all the pent-up energy in him finally finds somewhere to go._

_Ian tackles the older boy to the ground with ease but as Lip hits the pavement he manages to pull Ian down with him, forcing him onto his back in the moment he’s caught off guard. With an arm pinned tightly to his brother’s neck, Lip manages to force Ian to give up the fight, chest heaving with the effort and bright red drops from Lip’s bloody nose dripping onto his cheek. It brings him back to a stark reality._

_The reason for his rage, all of his grand intentions for day, abandon him until suddenly it’s like trying to recall something from a dream that insists on fading the more you try to remember until it’s lost entirely._

_“Lets just go the fuck to school, okay?” Lip says breathlessly and Ian, not knowing how else to proceed simply nods shakily._

_Lip’s nose definitely needs some attention and Ian can feel a nasty black eye tenderly forming underneath his skin but he accepts Lip’s hand and pulls himself to his feet before they both head to school._

_Nobody ever found out just how close he came to fucking up his life that day._

_***_

_It’s hard to say that things return to normal. He goes back to school with reluctance and he catches up with everything he missed at his dance rehearsals after being thoroughly chewed out by the instructor. He starts getting more sleep which helps somewhat but he still feels…itchy. It’s that feeling when you know you’re about to miss the bus, when the timer is about to hit zero and you’re running out of time. Ian constantly feels on the cusp of missing some kind of all-important deadline, he just has no fucking clue what it is or what he’s supposed to do. It’s an undeniable and suffocating urge that follows him constantly, yelling at him that he’s wasting time. That he isn’t getting any younger._

_He’s babysitting Liam when that constantly simmering water finally boils over. The thoughts come and they come and they don’t stop as he watches the youngest Gallagher scribble nonsense on the unopened envelopes of some forgotten bills lying on the coffee table, innocent in his ignorance of what lies before him. Ian never expected much growing up, numb now to the disappointment, but it doesn’t have to be that way for Liam, because Liam has a big brother who would do anything for him. Liam has a big brother who’ll look out for him, give him everything he never had as a child himself._

_And what kid doesn’t want to go to Disney World?_

_2 days and over 500 miles later Fiona and Lip pick him up from a police station in the middle of who the fuck knows where._

_Liam is fine, no harm done, and Fiona’s boyfriend holds no grudge for the borrowed car. The real damage Ian knows he’s done to himself. He sees it in the way Fiona looks at him, like seeing the ghost of their mother reincarnated right before her eyes._

_In a way that’s exactly what she’s looking at._

_He gets help. It takes some convincing, and the conversations following the incident are certainly not pretty, but he lets them drag him to a doctor if for anything then to prove them wrong. Before he knows it, he’s holding a prescription complete with a doctor’s scrawled signature on it confirming that he, Ian Gallagher, suffers with Bipolar Disorder._

_He supposes Monica did give him one last birthday present that year._

_The meds make his head feel blurry and his limbs feel weak. He isn’t sure how exactly this was supposed to be better but Fiona watches him round the clock to make sure he takes them and doesn’t do anything stupid._

_Like flush them down the toilet._

_Every day feels like starting from day one._

_But his family are persistent. They get him more meds and each take shifts watching out for him, the fact drives him nuts. Caged animals have more freedom._

_He gets a therapist, and although Fiona once said emphatically that Gallagher’s don’t do therapy, it just takes a few sessions after Ian actually decides to open up for him to see the true value in talking about his shit with people other than his siblings._

_It gets better. It gets manageable. His grades slowly start to improve again after he retakes a year and slowly, week by week, month by month, Ian begins to feel like finally the scales are starting to balance._

_***_

_The second bombshell comes over a year later. Ian is working on his application to West Point, he has near perfect grades now, has kept up his rigorous ROTC training and once again has his eyes set on his long term goals. He even keeps up with his dance lessons even though he knows he’ll have to give it up when he graduates, but it reminds him of Monica in a way that he doesn’t quite want to forget just yet. Between schoolwork, extracurriculars and his part time job, Ian doesn’t realise just how thin he’s wearing himself until the symptoms of hypomania are too obvious to ignore._

_He’s sleeping less, thoughts racing, barely-there symptoms and nowhere near close to what he’s experienced before but enough to make him nervous._

_He knows he’s overworked and something has to give._

_School is a no brainer, as is ROTC, those are kind of the two things he needs to keep pushing himself at if he wants to have any chance of making it to West Point._

_He can’t quit his job, as meagre as the paycheck is, it takes a huge weight off of Fiona’s shoulders to have a little extra cash coming in._

_That leaves dance. It’s the only solution really, if he’s not paying for lessons any more he can probably afford to cut back at least some of his shifts at the store, freeing up even more of his time._

_It’s not a decision that he wants to make but one that he knows he has to at some point. Dancing is a hobby, one that he loves but his future lies with West Point. Growing up means making these tough choices and Ian is nothing if not fiercely strict about what he needs to do to achieve his goals._

_He doesn’t tell anyone his plans. Doesn’t want them to worry that he may not be handling things quite as well as he says he is. Ian does what he always does, keeps his head down and does what needs to be done._

_“Hey,” Lip says as he enters the room, tugging his vest off and tossing it on the bed before nodding to the paperwork in Ian’s hands. “What’s that?_

_“West Point application.” Ian doesn’t take his eyes off the paper as he mumbles his response but he sees out of the periphery of his vision the way Lip stops in his tracks._

_“What?”_

_“What?” Ian echoes the question, eyes glancing to his brother._

_“West Point, like the Army?” Lip clarifies._

_“Obviously, dumbass.”_

_“Ian,” Lip says, his voice softening in a way that causes Ian’s stomach to clench, the sound far too close to that of Fiona’s on the morning of his 17 th birthday before he says the words that set all his future plans, all his life’s aspirations up in flames. “You know they won’t let you serve with Bipolar, right?”_

* * *

Mickey closes the door behind him with a brick in his stomach, hearing the lock click in place with a finality that creeps upon him the moment it’s too late.

Maybe he should have stayed.

Ian’s voice still rings in his head, helpless and _empty_ as he’d announced with painful clarity that he didn’t get the part, phone dropping uselessly into the sheets covering his lap. Mickey had felt it, the disappointment and frustration, all that hard work, anticipation, all of it for nothing. Only silence followed. Ian’s eyes had stared vacantly at his knees and it was bizarre, Mickey could almost feel the sorrow like it was his own. His heart felt weighted and the disappointed bloomed painful as he’d watched Ian mechanically process the news with slow, blinking eyes.

In that moment, Mickey felt almost entirely paralysed by the feeling of simply wanting to reach out, touch, comfort, anything to stop the tidal wave he could feel approaching, but his body simply sat motionless, trapped by his own inability to act, like a prisoner in his own skin.

And before he could even get out of his own head, force himself to say something like his gut was urging him to do, anything beyond a reactive _fuck_ upon first hearing the news Ian was up, wordlessly grabbing a towel and heading to the bathroom, door slamming shut behind him.

Mickey deflated the moment he found himself alone, the sound of running water and the reluctant groan of old pipes filling the apartment. With a sigh he’d sank back into the pillows and grabbed his phone. It wasn’t the morning he’d expected, and as he waited, the minutes passing persistently, he grew more and more anxious the longer Ian spent in the bathroom, and not just because he needed to piss.

So he got dressed, if only for something to pass the time. He made himself a bowl of cereal, finished it and washed his bowl up in the sink and still Ian had yet to emerge. Mickey waited while perched on the corner of Ian’s bed and gnawing at his lip, conscious of the hour draining away and the fact that he needed to head to work soon. The reminder nagged persistently with every tick of the old-school alarm clock Ian kept by his bed. 

It had been a blow Mickey wasn’t expecting. In all honesty he’d thought it a sure thing that Ian would get the job, couldn’t imagine the outcome going any other way. Even Ian himself – though he’d said he didn’t like to hope too much when it came to these things – had a sense of certainty about the whole thing.

Disappointed in the Milkovich household manifested itself in many ways, whether it be verbal abuse hurled by his sister, a hole punched in the wall by his brother, or a gun in the back pocket of his father, fully loaded as he’d left the house with an unsettling glint in his eye. Disappointed for a Milkovich was loud, unavoidable and filled a room like a noxious gas. Mickey had grown up knowing the only way to handle it was to get out of the fucking room.

But this was different. Ian wasn’t yelling or punching things. His grief was oddly quiet in a way Mickey was unused to.

“Fuck it,” he’d muttered to himself as he stood and approached the bathroom door, rapping his knuckles on the door in announcement. “Hey, Ian, you fucking drown or something?” He waited, unsure what exactly he expected to hear but hoping for something at least, even if it was just Ian telling him to fuck off. At least that he’d know what to do with. 

His finger tapped nervously against his thigh as he waited for _something_ , he wasn’t sure when it started exactly but the moment he’d realized it, he brought the offending hand to swipe at his brow while his thoughts frantically searched for what the fuck he was supposed to do. 

“Everything okay?” He’d eventually asked in a voice that had barely sounded like his own while looking at his feet and shuffling self-consciously in Ian’s apartment, as though the whole world could see that he gave a shit.

But nothing came from the other side of the door. Mickey sighed and checked the time on his phone once more. Being late to work was something he should give a fuck about, it’s not like he hadn’t gotten out of worse by sheer cockiness alone but the growing tension had begun to suffocate as Mickey found himself further and further out of his comfort zone. He was exposed and ugly, without Ian to bury that shame in and left with no choice but to shield himself with barbed wire.

“Whatever, man. Turn into a fucking prune, see if I care,” he’d muttered, grabbing his overnight bag and heading out the door.

In the end, Mickey only knows one way to handle it. He got out of the fucking room.

His hand is still on the handle when he hears the shower shut off from inside. His stomach is lead and he knows he fucked it up.

He should have stayed.

* * *

The first thing he does when he gets to the garage is take a piss, wondering why he didn’t just call in sick as he does so. The thought sits heavy on him as he tries to think what Ian has on today. Does he have a shift at the diner, or a class to teach? It’s hard to imagine him doing either right now, all he can picture is him shrivelling up in that fucking shower.

After washing his hands, he rummages through his bag for his toothbrush. He can taste the morning breath still, having not been able to even brush his fucking teeth at Ian’s. He tries not to be angry as his digs with a little too much aggression through his bag. He knows that Ian must be devastated but he can’t help it, he’s fucking pissed.

He’s pissed that Ian would just shut him out, he’s pissed that he’s left with no choice but to ready himself for his shift in this disgusting cubicle with piss stains on the floor and he’s pissed because he can’t find his fucking toothbrush.

The search is pointless though. It isn’t there because, Mickey remembers with a groan, he’d left it in Ian’s bathroom, next to the sink. His blue one alongside Ian’s green.

“Fuck,” he spits, dropping his bag into a heap on the floor and running a hand through his hair, feeling the last of his patience slip away.

He knows why he didn’t just call in sick. It was a legitimate excuse for him to leave sure, but Mickey knows that in the end, all he’s doing is running, like he always does. Running from the smallest implication that what they were was anything close to being real. Running from the fact that he fucking _cares._

Because he does. It had crept up on him, wormed its way into existence in the form of packing a spare shirt in his bag, in late night conversations and opening up about his juvenile mistakes, in leaving his fucking toothbrush in Ian’s bathroom.

He cares and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do now.

“Hurry the fuck up, a guy’s gotta take a shit,” Dario’s voice hollers from outside side of the cubicle, interrupting his epiphany with a fist pounding on the door. “How long does it take to put your makeup on, huh?”

“Get fucked, Dario” Mickey calls out, before snatching up his bag and barging through the door, almost knocking it into the impatient asshole on his way out.

He waits until lunch before texting Ian. He spends the whole morning figuring out exactly what to say but when it comes to it, he keeps it simple, to the point.

**(13:14) you okay?**

He keeps the chat window open after he sends it, waits to see the little message under Ian’s name change from _last seen_ to _online_ but the change never comes. He waits out his whole lunch shift, periodically checking his phone to see if Ian has replied or at least opened the message but each time it remains unread in the text window, pathetic and ignored.

Work can hardly keep his mind off things as he goes back to the shop.

The thing he loves most about his job is the turnover, the satisfaction of seeing a job well done before moving on to the next but this piece of shit Chevy has been nothing but broken chassis after rotten framework, after mouldy interior and Mickey is at the point where he’d rather drive it into the fucking lake than spend another minute on it.

The owner had popped in once or twice over the weeks, thrown more money at it despite Reynold’s gently insisting that he just cut his losses at this point, that there was hardly any life left in the thing but the guy was adamant. It had wasted away in his own garage for too many years until, like a pair of aging twins he’d gotten too old to restore it himself, so now the work falls to Mickey whether he breaks his back doing so or not.

Even on the weeks when they can’t do shit for it, when they’re waiting for specialist parts to be delivered, the hunk of metal just sits there, a reminder of the pointless task still to be completed, with no end in sight.

But the end of the day comes, as it does, and Mickey lights a cigarette as he leaves the garage, pulling out his phone to see no new messages and hardly feeling surprised, despite the pit in his stomach sinking deeper. He hits dial and just calls the motherfucker. It’s something he’s never done before, preferring to let Ian be the one to initiate that shit all the time, but he hopes the iron weights on his shoulders will lift a little if he can just talk to him, if just to make sure he’s okay.

_Hey, this is Ian Gallagher. Sorry I can’t take your call, if you’re inquiring about lessons please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, thanks!_

With a frown Mickey hangs up and immediately tries again.

_Hey, this is Ian Gallagher, Sorry I can’t –_

“What the fuck,” he mutters around the cigarette balanced between his lips before trying one more time and predictably being redirected to voicemail yet again.

He opens the message thread again. His earlier text had been received at least so Ian must have turned his phone off since.

**(18:24) call me when you get this.**

He types out the message, hits send and waits for a few moments, just in case. But nothing happens, the message is undelivered, and Mickey can do nothing but pocket his phone and head home.

He tries not to expect much, but he hopes at least that Ian will call or text him back at some point that evening or the next day. Maybe a quick apology while he’s nuking something for his dinner, or a call with some kind of explanation as he’s heading to work in the morning. He doesn’t though, the latest message is still marked as undelivered and Mickey wishes more than ever that he could’ve just fucking stayed. Waited, for however long it took for Ian to come round. He should have been there.

But every time he gets too far into that train of thought, every time he reaches that point, the anger comes back again, because what the fuck is he supposed to do? Who the fuck even is he in Ian’s life to do something anyway?

It hits him again as he’s sat picking at half a sandwich on his lunch break the next day that he cares.

That’s the extent of it, that’s as far as Mickey can get on the topic when he tries to pinpoint what’s even going on with the two of them. They fuck. They hang out. And Mickey cares. But how does that help anyone when Ian won’t even talk to him for no fucking reason at all? He cares, he does, but he has no idea where that leaves him, what he’s meant to do now.

_Hey, this is Ian Gallagher –_

The same greeting plays as Mickey tries his luck dialing again, disconnecting the call the moment he hears the same impersonal cadence of Ian’s pre-recorded voice.

And then it’s the same the next day.

_Hey, this –_

Mickey slams the phone down onto the rickety plastic table before automated Ian can even finish saying his name.

“Something on your mind, brother?” Benny inquires, causing Mickey to jump, not realising he wasn’t alone in the break room.

“Fuck,” he says, willing his pulse to calm down as he rubs both palms against his face. Benny takes the seat opposite, placing his coffee down carefully before unfolding the paper, flattening it out in front of him. Mickey watches him for a moment, it’s always the same routine with Benny. Always the same paper, always takes his break at the same time.

Mickey always thought routine would drive him crazy, that he’d rather get tossed back in the joint again than work a regular job, working the same hours, doing the same thing over and over. He’s never done normal, not in any real sense of the word. This job is the closest thing he’s ever come and even still he finds himself unsettled in it from time to time, like he doesn’t belong, doesn’t deserve to be here. Sometimes it feels like he should just go back and find his place among the roaches once more, hustling for cash in whatever opportunities come his way and never committing to one thing for longer than is necessary.

“What’s up?” Benny asks with a frown when Mickey loses himself in his thoughts. He shakes his head, it’s nothing. Nothing he’s willing to openly talk about at least. Benny shrugs and focuses his attention on his crossword puzzle, eyes scanning the page in concentration as he scribbles notes in the margins. Mickey watches him and it’s almost like he can see how he’s thinking, see the way his brain works through each puzzle and wishes he could think a little more like he does, figure stuff out with the information he has when the answer isn’t glaringly obvious.

“Ay, what do you do when Sadie gives you the silent treatment?” Mickey asks before he can stop himself. Benny looks up at the question, considers for a moment and Mickey knows that the guy is reading him like an open fucking book right now, tries not to squirm under the scrutiny.

“Figure out which important date I forgot and buy her flowers usually,” Benny says humorously, but with an acknowledgement that Mickey is looking for more than that, he continues. “I just talk to her, find out why she’s upset and go from there.”

“Okay, but what if I didn’t do nothing?” The whole thing still doesn’t make sense to him. That weekend had been fucking perfect, there was nothing in the way until Ian got that fucking phone call.

“The problem might not be you, but it’s something.”

Mickey sighs and rolls his eyes because what the fuck is he supposed to do with that?

“Look, every relationship is different,” Benny continues, his tone sincere and Mickey tries not to dwell on the word _relationship_ , tries not to think about the fact that he’s even asking for advice on this shit in the first place. “But the one thing you gotta have is communication.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda hard when he won’t answer my fucking calls,” Mickey mutters, glaring at the cracked screen of his phone.

“Then you gotta find another way to get through to him.”

* * *

Mickey doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s standing outside Ian’s apartment, heart in his throat and he has no idea what he’s doing.

There’d been no answer when he’d buzzed downstairs, but he wasn’t leaving until he knew for sure so he hung around until he was able to tailgate behind a delivery driver.

His fist clenches and unclenches in his hand as he looks both ways down the hallway, paranoid almost that he’s being watched, mocked even, until with a shake of his head, he raises his hand and pounds on the door. Ian will have to talk to him if he’s standing right there in his face. He calls out his name, waits and listens but as he’d feared not a peep comes from inside, no canned TV laughter, no running of the shower, no bustle of pots and pans in the kitchen.

The place is deserted, and Mickey has never felt at such a loss before.

Gallagher has always been a bit of a mystery to him, and Mickey knows – of course he fucking knows – that he should have offered more in that moment, but the fact that Ian has literally dropped off the planet is starting to freak him the fuck out. 

He knocks again, slamming the door hard with his fist as if that could somehow change the reality of the fact that Ian isn’t home. Still, he waits, biting the inside of his cheek as the last remaining hope that Ian will eventually pull open the door dies and his grand gesture of showing the fuck up goes up in smoke.

Fuck, why didn’t he just fucking stay. The same thought tumbles through his mind over and over like a brick in a washing machine. He could’ve figured out what the fuck was going on, but Mickey left, like he always does. The same way he runs from every opportunity he’s ever been given for the sake of a reputation that means nothing.

He should have been there for him. Everything else aside, they’re fucking friends at least, right? Well, a goddamn lousy friend Mickey turned out to be, no surprises there.

Turning to leave, he pulls out his phone for one last ditch effort, frantic now in the fact that his sure-fire plan has left him still with nothing.

**(20:47) where the fuck are you?**

He texts, reading it back amongst the stack of unread messages before his thumbs scramble across the screen again with another, feeling the breath leave his lungs as he hits send again.

**(20:47) im worried about you**

He stares at the screen for a few moments, just in case. Because he is. He’s worried and with it comes an entirely new experience, one that he always figured himself simply incapable of.

“Fucking, Gallagher,” he mutters, hitting the call button and bringing the phone to his ear – _Hey this is Ian Galla –_ Mickey punches the end call button. “Fuck.”

So much for finding another way to get through to him.

He arrives home in a suitably bad mood and in no frame of mind to deal with Mandy’s bullshit when she follows him to the kitchen. With closed eyes, he sighs heavily, the sound catching in his throat and resembling more of a growl. Can’t he just have some goddamn peace?

“Have you heard from Ian lately?” Mandy asks, either oblivious to Mickey’s ire or lacking any reason to care. Most likely the latter.

“Who?” Mickey mumbles dismissively, retrieving a beer from the fridge while his chest constricts painfully.

“Asshole! _Ian_. You know who I’m fucking talking about,” Mickey eyebrows raise to his hairline as he does a double take, her mouth is tight and eyes hardened. She’s on a mission and the fact makes Mickey nervous.

“The fuck would I have heard from him for?” he deflects, despising the minuscule tremor in his voice that threatens to betray him. Not now, not this. It’s too close, she’s too close and Mickey’s almost at breaking point.

Mandy crosses her arms and keeps her eyes set as Mickey takes a swig of his beer, determined to maintain eye contact, to keep the charade intact. Whatever shit is going on with Gallagher, the last thing he needs is Mandy’s interference.

“Mickey,” she says, and the drop in her voice, the sudden and uncharacteristic softness in her tone causes Mickey’s jaw to involuntarily tense. Her eyes search his for just a fraction of a moment before she averts them and adds in a way that can almost be described as gentle “I know what’s going on, okay.”

Mickey blinks. Once, twice. The kitchen clock, still persistently ticking an hour behind, is the only sound that fills the space as he’s caught in a stand-off, glaring at his little sister, his heart pounding painfully.

Fuck.

Mandy waits with her checkmate in place, eyebrows raised high and daring Mickey to deny it.

He puts his beer down, swipes his bottom lip as if to disguise…what exactly? He can’t just talk his way out of this, not if Ian has been running his mouth to his sister all this time. He’s stuck now, no place to run, nowhere to hide.

“Oh yeah?” he starts and the amount of effort it takes to keep his voice steady is honestly pitiful. “What he fucking tell you, huh?”

“He didn’t tell me shit, dumbass,” Mandy scowls, her usually angry tone reclaiming its authority. “But it hardly takes a genius to figure it out. Ian tells me he’s fucking some guy and you just conveniently happen to not be here all the times Ian tells me he can’t hang out? You’re not that fucking slick.”

“Oh, well congratu-fucking-lations Nancy Drew,” Mickey sneers, “But I don’t know what to tell ya, okay? he’s not answering my texts so what the fuck ever. Fuck him.” He finishes with an exaggerated shrug before crossing his arms over his chest. Once the words are out, he can hear just how pathetically vulnerable he sounds, whining because a boy won’t text him back. He wonders what the fastest way to exit this god-awful conversation would be, wonders if it’s possible to just forget about the last two months entirely, go back to the way things were before this whole mess started. 

“I haven’t heard from him either. What did you fucking do to him, Mickey?”

“Ay, what the fuck makes you think any of this is my fucking fault, huh?”

“Because you’re a piece of shit and Ian deserves better,” Mandy bites back cruelly and without a second of hesitation.

“Well, I didn’t fucking do nothing, alright?” He’s right at least about that, Mickey admits to himself. He did nothing. He went to work and left Ian alone to deal with his shit and he should have just _fucking stayed_.

He swipes his bottle from the kitchen counter and pushes past his sister, needing to get away, needing to be anywhere but here talking to her about the thing she was never supposed to know.

“Mickey,” she yells after him through gritted teeth and her determined footsteps behind betray the fact that she’s following him. Mickey barges his way into his room with his shoulder, but Mandy is in the doorway before he can even turn around. “What happened?” she demands, hand holding the door open to prevent Mickey from slamming it in her face.

“I don’t even fucking know!” he shouts, anger finally spilling over. It’s been a day, no, a fucking week of this hell and Mickey is just about over it. If Gallagher doesn’t wanna talk to him then who the fuck even cares. The very last thing he wants to do his spill his fucking heart out over it, especially not with his sister of all people.

Because he had been _so close_. So close to falling into the unknown, to passing that point of no return and the though left him feeling equal parts terrified and elated. He had no idea what he was doing, all he knew was that he had no intentions of putting a stop to it any time soon, whatever the fuck that means.

But above all, there’s the fact that Ian is quite clearly not fucking okay right now and there’s nothing Mickey can even do.

“He got turned down for some…dance thing,” he admits, anger abating somewhat as takes a seat on the corner of his bed. “Hasn’t said a word to me since. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.”

“What dance thing?”

“You know, that fucking audition he’s been freaking out about,” Mickey insists but Mandy’s eyes remain wide and clueless.

“He never told me anything about an audition.”

Mandy remains in the doorway but her shoulder sag slightly. Mickey wonders what that means exactly. What any of it means.

“Were you…” she starts, her voice is breathy and quiet as she tries to choose her next words. “I mean, was it just fucking, or…?” Mandy looks up at him expectantly, silently letting Mickey deduce the words left unsaid.

Mickey doesn’t return her gaze, instead keeps his eyes trained firmly on the corner of his room, on the faded stain on the carpet, on the small pile of clothes that had missed the hamper, on the tube of pringles that he should have tossed out by now. His room is a mess, his life likewise and everything just feels so pointless.

“Mandy, leave me the fuck alone. Please.”

She waits a beat before responding.

“Sure,” she says with a slight nod as she backs away from the door. Mickey keeps his eyes trained on the ground and knows that he just answered her question.

The door creeps shut behind her and Mickey remains sitting, leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees to just -

Process.

He takes a moment to consider if he’s overreacting. It has only been four days after all, and more than once they’ve spent longer periods with little to no contact.

But that final note, that one last out of tune moment between them after what was otherwise a near harmonious weekend sits heavily on Mickey’s chest, compressing his ribs and his lungs and his heart.

He doesn’t know what’s happening, nor when this became more than what it was ever supposed to be.

Because Mickey Milkovich who grew up filthy and ragged on the South Side, picking pockets and starting fires and never giving a moment’s thought to his life or his choices, feels now for the first time in his life the long, dull and persistent ache of _wanting_ something.

And it had come just a minute too late.

* * *

_Hey this is Ian Gallagher. Sorry I can’t take your call, if you’re inquiring about lessons please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, thanks!_

The diner is pretty quiet when Mickey pushes open the door, pocketing his phone in the process. It’s a Friday afternoon, not much reason for it to be packed with patrons so there’s no surprise there. There are enough customers for it to not be a complete ghost town though, an old man sips from his coffee cup while reading the paper, a couple guys are on their lunch break from that bike shop across the road as well as a handful of other diners who have nowhere else to be this time of day.

He spots Ian straight away, clearing up some plates from the table of women who had just left and it feels like the barbed wire constricting his heart finally loosens at the sight. At first, all Mickey does is take a moment to just breathe, knowing that, above everything, Ian is okay at least. He’s here, at work, existing. The worry that maybe he hadn’t been had, an unspeakable fear had been subtle yet persistent and Mickey is glad to put that lingering uncertainty to rest at least.

Ian doesn’t see him, keeping his gaze down as he hauls the box with both hands and drags his feet to the kitchen before Mickey can make himself known, plates rattling noisily in the box as he goes.

Mickey can’t quite describe the way he feels, the way his heart skips and somersaults just at the fact of knowing that Ian is here after days of no contact. The kitchen door swings as Ian disappears and Mickey looks around the place, biting his lip nervously. He considers just leaving, letting Ian speak to him if he ever fucking wants to again but that’s not what he came here to do.

He hasn’t planned a fucking speech or anything as lame as that, but Mickey knows that he’s gotta say something, give Ian _something_ but he only kinda, vaguely, sorta knows what exactly. He knows he’ll make a monumental jackass of himself if he even tried to voice what the actual fuck is going on his head, he doesn’t much understand it himself most of the time, but after everything, he feels like he owes Ian at least a moment of honesty.

He just doesn’t do this. He doesn’t get to know people, he barely takes the time to learn people’s names. Mickey doesn’t give a shit, sex is just that, sex, and sex with Ian is fucking fantastic, yes, but why should it be any different to fucking any other guy? That’s the conundrum Mickey finds himself battling with over and over again, torn infinitely between just walking away and seeing this through, and the decision would be a hell of a lot easier if he just knew exactly what it was he wanted. 

Mickey always thought he knew himself, knew his own mind. He doesn’t go chasing after guys like some bitch but here he is, sitting alone at the place where Ian works trying to think of what exactly he wants to say, what exactly he needs to do, and how exactly he’s supposed to feel.

But it’s more than that. Mickey is all too familiar with his fuck up. He knows he should have given Ian more, knows he should have made an effort, been less callous, less harsh but he’s also fucking _pissed_ at the fact that Ian deemed it his job to call the shots all of a sudden. Mickey might not know what he wants exactly but being dropped at a moment’s fucking notice just isn’t sitting right with him.

There’s shouting coming from the kitchen, breaking Mickey from his vagrant stance on the whole situation, and even though he tries not to listen, the moment he makes out Ian’s voice it’s impossible not to.

He’s arguing with who Mickey assumes must be his sister back there, Fiona. His boss who is apparently not shy of busting his ass.

A number of other diners spare a glance towards the kitchen at the racket, none too subtle in their investment in a strangers’ feud as they scrape forks against worn porcelain and enjoy the show, prompting Mickey to wonder if this isn’t the first shouting match of the day.

“ _I’m fine_ ,” he hears Ian insist more than once followed by “ _will you just get off my back!”_ and it’s strange, to say the least, to hear this aggression and bitterness from Ian when the only version of him Mickey has seen thus far has been the persistent yet annoyingly optimistic kid with stars in his eyes.

The clatter of various pots and pans, the consistent sizzle from the grill and what sounds like running water drowns out most of Fiona’s somewhat softer but still authoritative tone, clearly more aware of the fact they may invoke an audience. All Mickey can make out are her disconnected fragments contrasting starkly with the clarity of Ian’s indignant responses.

“ _…know you’re not supposed…pushing yourself…the day off?”_

“ _I don’t need you to baby me. I told you everything is fine._ ”

“ _…I know, but…worried about…taking your –_ ”

“ _Yes_ Jesus _, you don’t have to remind me every five fucking minutes!”_

Ian bursts into the diner then, the swinging door crashing noisily against the adjacent wall as his temper finally blows, eyes furious and jaw clenched as he scans the place for tables that need attention and various eavesdroppers return their focus to their plates. It’s just as Mickey is starting to feel like he shouldn’t be here, when suddenly it’s too late to run because Ian’s attention promptly land on his.

He freezes in his tracks, the waitress following out behind him almost dropping her arm full of plates as she collides with his back. The spell breaks as Ian mumbles out an apology to the girl and Mickey casts his eyes to the counter, lips twitching, heart pounding.

“Hey,” Ian mumbles as he approaches hesitantly, dropping his Rubbermaid tub behind the counter with a plastic clatter. It’s a move he seems to regret instantly as he stands now like a man with no purpose, floundering for something to ground him now that he has nothing to occupy his hands.

“That all you fucking got? _Hey_?” Mickey grumbles with raised eyebrows before reeling himself in, deciding that his usual attitude might not be the best way to handle current circumstances. He looks away, scratches at his eyebrow as he recomposes his thoughts because he wants to do this right but then Ian is speaking again, adding as a distinct afterthought –

“Sorry.” His voice is rough, a barely-there whisper. Mickey chances a glance up and Ian does at least look reasonably guilty. His eyes are downcast but Mickey notices more than that, his hair is a disheveled mess, his eyes have bags under them and his skin is somehow even paler than usual. “Meant to call.”

“Lot easier to do that if you turn your fucking phone on,” Mickey tries to joke but it falls flat, all humour sucked out of the room like a vacuum. He swallows, readjusts his weight onto his elbows as he looks down at his nail bitten hands. “The fuck you been, man? I swung by your place.”

Ian shrugs. He places both hands onto the corner of the counter and leans his weight against them, hanging his head and avoiding looking anywhere close to mickey’s vicinity.

“Went home for a couple days. See the family”

“The family you see at work every fucking day?” Mickey clarifies with a nod towards the kitchen. Ian doesn’t react, eyes unfocused as he stares at nothing in particular and bites his lip. Mickey notices now just how chapped they are, worn and shredded from constant chewing. “What’s going on with you?” he asks patiently, ducking his head in the hopes to catch Ian’s eye, consumed with the need to just fix whatever the fuck has gone wrong.

Ian allows his gaze to flicker momentarily towards Mickey, looking for something but what, Mickey has no idea. There’s half a beat’s pause before he looks away again, shaking his head. “Nothing,” he finishes, and Mickey raises his brows in disbelief because this kid isn’t fooling anyone.

“Ian, even I can see it ain't nothing.”

“It doesn’t matter, okay,” Ian insists, his obvious agitation growing as he pushes away from the counter, the frustration seeping into his voice like spilled ink as he turns in a circle and winds up staring straight back at Mickey again. “You don’t have to be here, you don’t owe me anything.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” And it’s a battle to keep his voice from rising because here Mickey is fucking _trying_ and getting absolutely jack shit for his trouble. He wants to fucking help for the first time in his life.

“Shit.” Ian rubs a hand against his face as he sucks in a deep breath, allowing it to slowly stutter through his nose as he exhales while Mickey waits for some fucking answers. He says nothing as Ian runs a hand through his hair, gazing out at the café full of people who are probably trying their best not to stare at the scene they’re likely making. Ian turns himself back towards Mickey, folding his arms across his chest. It makes him look somehow minuscule, like the world around him is just too big. “You got any smokes on you?”

Mickey dips his brows at the sudden question as it comes out of the blue.

“Uh, yeah,” he eventually says, Ian unfolds his arms and starts untying his apron from the back.

“Fiona’s been bugging me to take my break,” he says by way of explanation.

Mickey nods, understanding Ian’s meaning as he lifts himself from the stool and follows through to the _Staff Only_ signposted door and into the kitchen. Ian mumbles to Fiona that he’s taking five, shoots down her insistence that he needs to take at least a half hour as he hangs his apron up and heads for the back door. Mickey keeps his head down, purposefully ignoring the looks he receives from the kitchen staff at his presence as he lets Ian lead him out to the alley.

Nothing is said at first. Mickey leans against the wall and fishes his crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He only has three left but he offers one to Ian before placing his own into his mouth and digging for his lighter. He lights his own, shielding the flame from the non-existent breeze, then hands the lighter over, feeling the brush of his fingertips as Ian takes it. It’s ridiculous, some middle school teenage girl bullshit but he can’t help the way it makes his heart beat faster after almost a week of radio silence and Mickey knows he needs to get a grip.

Ian seems to visibly relax once he takes that first drag and Mickey lets the fresh air, polluted as it may be by the smoke, calm him. He can still hear the bustle of the kitchen from inside but it’s dulled now, accompanied by the day to day Southside score populating the outside world. 

This is them, this is what he knows and what he’s used to. This is how they spend time together, but the looming fact that one of them is going to have to say something sooner or later lingers because Mickey knows that whatever the fuck is going on isn’t just going to go away on its own. He doesn’t know how exactly he ended up in this situation but he knows for a fact that he’s happy with the way things are, or were at least. He knows at the very least that he doesn’t want to go backwards, he just has no fucking idea what going forwards would even look like for him or if he’s anywhere close to being ready for anything more right now.

With a shake of his head, Mickey forces the thoughts away, unsure where they’d even come from in the first place. He looks at Ian, who stands beside him, one foot propped up against the wall behind him as he smokes, staring fixedly at the ground and letting a haze of smoke pour from his nostrils.

“I was gonna call you, okay. You didn’t have to come to my fucking work,” he says to the pavement, surprising Mickey at the fact that he’d spoken at all.

“Well excuse me for thinking you were fucking dead or some shit. Even my fucking sister was worried about your ass.”

“Mandy?”

“Yeah she…” he sighs, “she fucking knows alright. So, whatever.”

“Shit, I-I swear I didn’t say anything,” Ian is quick to stress and his worry would almost be endearing if he wasn’t currently being an asshole.

“Relax, Gallagher. She figured it out on her own. But just fucking text her or something, please, so she stops nagging me.”

“Right,” Ian deflates, clearing his throat slightly. “Yeah, sure.” Silence falls again as Mickey lets his head fall back against the brick, indulging in the tobacco filling his lungs.

“You gonna tell me what the fuck’s going on?” he asks, careful to keep the aggression out of his tone but failing to consider the poor choice of his phrasing overall. He awaits some kind of response at least but when Ian remains silent, staring at the ground like it had personally offended him, Mickey gets closer and closer to just losing his temper entirely. “ _Ian_ ,” he emphasises.

“I didn’t want to get into this shit here,” Ian mutters reluctantly.

“Get into _what_ shit, Ian? I don’t know what the fuck is going on.” Mickey pushes himself from the wall, turning to face Ian but is met with only sullen, infuriating silence. “You fucking ignore me, ignore Mandy for a whole goddamn week. You vanish off the face of the planet, what am I supposed to think? What am I supposed to fucking do, huh? Sit around like a bitch waiting for you to pick up the goddamn phone?” He doesn’t mean to lose his temper but with every passing moment he can feel the control slipping through his fingers. “Is this all because of that audition? Look, you’ll get other chances, okay.”

“It’s not just one audition, Mickey,” Ian finally snaps, “I go out for these things all the fucking time and where has it got me? I’m still stuck here, living in a 4 by 4 box, wearing a fucking apron hoping that one day I might actually get to make something of myself but guess what? I won’t. That’s just how it goes around here. This is all I fucking got.”

“So what, you’re giving up? Is that it?”

“No,” Ian insists, face creasing up at the thought, “I just…” Mickey watches as he struggles to find the words, eyes darting between Mickey and the ground as if he can find what he wants to say hidden somewhere between. “It’s the rejection,” he finally settles on and Mickey can see the way his jaw clenches as he says it. “Over and over and over again.”

Mickey is at a loss. Unable to say the right thing even if he knew what it was. This isn’t something he can fix, this isn’t something he can make right but the way Ian is looking at him makes him feel, strangely, like it’s his fault, that he’s to blame. He can’t seem to correlate the conversation, can’t find the link between everything Ian is saying and right here, right now. He knows it’s there, buried in his outburst but he’s blind to the meaning of it all, concerned only with the way Ian looks to be in so much _pain_ right now and feeling like the most useless man alive.

“I’ve been sick,” Ian eventually admits after a pause that stretches longer than it should have. “Saw my doctor on Monday. S’why I’ve been at my family’s place. Why I haven’t called.”

“Fuck…” Mickey says, feeling the air leave his lungs as the final sucker punch comes, the pit in his stomach growing heavier as suddenly the weight of everything becomes undeniably real. “You okay?” he asks uselessly.

Ian bites his lip. He looks Mickey directly in the eyes, searching, again, before he turns a way, a sardonic, self-deprecating grin flittering onto his mouth.

“Yeah,” he whispers, lying through his teeth and Mickey knows it. “Yeah I’m, doing better.”

“Ian-”

“I said I’m fine,” Ian asserts in a way that tells Mickey not to push, not now anyway. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck as he scrambles to think of what to do, what to say because it feels like they’re going in circles and Mickey still has no idea how to connect the dots, how to fix whatever the fuck went wrong.

“Hey,” he says when Ian stubs out his cigarette and looks like he’s about to head inside. “When’re you going back to your place? I’ll come by and we can-”

“No,” Ian cuts him off suddenly. Mickey raises an eyebrow in response before Ian continues in a voice so painfully unsure of itself. “I just don’t know if this is such a good idea anymore.”

Mickey stares. He waits. For what he has no idea, hoping that the curtain will come down and reveal that this was all just one big fucking act and that he’s been the butt of the joke this whole time.

“What the fuck, Gallagher?”

“I can’t keep holding onto things that are never gonna work out, okay?” Ian exclaims, both arms flailing at his sides with the outburst. “I can’t keep doing this over and over again, I need at least one thing in my life that’s going somewhere, and this isn’t it.”

“So you’re just gonna go and change the fucking rules, huh?” His chest constricts with the words, it’s a miracle he even gets them out because the moment they are he feels his breath stuttering in his ribcage, a mixed bag of anger, betrayal and who the fuck knows, heartbreak?

“Yeah,” Ian answers, firmly. He drops down from the step by the door, voice softening slightly before he expands, cautiously. “It’s my life and I can’t keep standing still.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey spits.

“Mickey-”

“No,” he jerks back, “this was your fucking idea. I don’t know what the fuck you want from me.”

“I think you do.” And he does. He fucking does know and the worst part is that he wants it to, he wants to give Ian exactly what he’s asking for but he just has no idea how, no idea if that’s even possible for a kid like him, chewed up and spat out by the life he’s lived. “But it doesn’t matter, okay,” Ian continues. “You were right. These things never work so let’s just…call it now. Before it gets messier.”

Mickey can’t look at him. Chewing on the inside of his cheek he turns away, takes a few uncertain steps towards the opposite brick wall as he swipes at the bridge of his nose and finally understands what the fuck all of this is about.

Because of course it’s about him, and all the things he can’t do. All the ways he lets people down.

There’s a part of him, caged and buried that screams out for him to do something, one final last ditch effort. It tells him to say something, give Ian a reason to stay, tell him how he feels or just fucking grab him by the neck and kiss him stupid but he doesn’t. It’s like there’s a wall, solid and unyielding standing right there between him and the life he’s starting to think he might want.

“Mick…” Ian says to his back when and he can hear the regret, the guilt plaguing his voice. Ian was always the more empathetic, the guy who could somehow feel exactly what someone else was going through. But Mickey won’t let him have this, he won’t let him. This pain is his.

“Just…” he takes in a steadying breath. “Just fucking call Mandy, okay?”

He can hear Ian’s soft sigh from behind, can feel the disappointment, but Mickey can’t give him anything else right now, there’s nothing else left in him.

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings:  
> Mentions of canon character death, though under different circumstances  
> Mentions of Bipolar Disorder, and an exploration of depression and mania
> 
> I'm sorry this one ended up being pretty heavy, I promise sweeter things are to come!


End file.
